The Wharf Butcher (29 page)

Chapter Forty-Nine

Stepping from the battered white transit van, Carlisle adjusted his sunglasses and glanced at the four-bedroomed house opposite. Why the killer had chosen this property above all others in the area, was beyond him. This was egotism gone mad. The house had great style and character, fabulous architectural features, attractive brickwork and a contrasting slate roof. His first impression was that this was rich man’s territory. The people who lived here certainly didn’t struggle with their mortgages.

‘What do you make of it?’ said Carlisle.

Mason took a step back. ‘I couldn’t afford the council tax, let alone the deposit on one of these properties.’

It felt strange working on an undercover stakeout again, but little had changed. As ever, Jack Mason was still the true master of disguise. Wearing an orange high-visibility jacket, grubby white T-shirt, blue denim jeans and a pair of mud-spattered boots, his colleague looked anything but a senior police officer now engaged in a hunt for a serial killer. Formalities over, the DCI reached down inside the driver’s door and picked up a clipboard and pen.

‘Snap out of it,’ Mason insisted. ‘It’s time to look busy.’

‘I am.’

Mason shook his head in a show of contempt, and climbed into the back of the transit van. Seconds later he dragged a huge industrial high-pressure jet washer towards the van’s rear doors.

‘Stick this on the driveway, and try putting your back into it.’

‘I thought this was an undercover distraction?’ answered Carlisle.

‘It is, and you’re the labourer.’

‘This is bloody ridiculous, Jack.’

‘What the hell are you whingeing about now?’

‘This contraption,’ he said, pointing down at the jet washer. ‘It weighs a bloody ton.’

The banter between them was flowing thick and fast, just as it had in the old days. Then without warning, the DCI suddenly leapt from the transit van and began laying out an impressive line of road cones. Perfect, he thought, he couldn’t have done better himself. Within minutes, the whole area had taken on the appearance of a major construction project in progress.

‘Tell me . . .’ said Mason, poking his head into an open man-hole drain. ‘What kind of crazy are we dealing with here?’

‘He’s back to his old tricks and working within his comfort zone, I’d say.’

‘But why this area, what’s going on inside his head?’

‘Good question. He probably sees himself as bit of a celebrity, and he’s making a personal statement. It’s a familiar pattern with these people. They’re egotistic, full of their own self-esteem.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s planned all of this?’

‘He probably has.’

‘You’re joking!’ Mason said, shaking his head.

‘That’s what we’re up against, I’m afraid.’

Then, from a neighbouring upstairs window, Carlisle caught a chink in the curtains.

‘Don’t rush it,’ Mason said. ‘Remember, we’re here to fix the service drains. Try to look natural, without that stupid grin on your face.’

Carlisle was enjoying himself. It reminded him of the old days, when they’d worked together in the Metropolitan. There were times, and there had been many over the years, when they’d been caught in some hair-raising schemes. Drawn together from different social classes, theirs was a strange personality clash. Even so, they still had great respect for one another’s individual qualities, and that’s what held them together. As Mason had once said
–
friendly disputes are healthy, you need to embrace them
.

How could he ever forget that?

‘And that’s another thing,’ Carlisle said, pointing to the side of the white transit van. ‘Someone’s spelt maintenance wit
h
‘e
’
instead of a
n
‘a’
.

‘What!’

‘Those were my exactly sentiments. It’s brains you need round here, not brawn.’

Clipboard at the ready, Mason strolled towards the rear of the surveillance house. Seconds later, they were inside and moving down a long narrow hallway. At the top of a short flight of stairs, the landing turned back on itself and brought them to the front of the building. The first bedroom, the smaller of two, was empty and void of all furnishings. It had a musky smell, and reminded him of an antique shop crammed full of old books. The second room, the master bedroom, was teaming with sophisticated police surveillance equipment. Not surprised, the air inside stank of Chinese takeaways – a sure sign that a round-the-clock surveillance operation was in place. Taking centre stage, a high definition professional camcorder was pointing directly down at the property opposite. It was then he noticed a large net screen hanging just a few feet back from the window. He’d seen its like before, a tool used by the military. Although partly restricting the light, any internal movements would not be spotted from outside of the building. Another clever weapon in the team’s armoury, noted Carlisle.

From a distance, the undercover detective cut a dash. Wearing a black polo shirt, tracksuit bottoms and a pair of black trainers, his slicked back, black hair, had been cropped short on the sides.

‘What’s happening, Donaldson?’ Mason asked.

‘He’s still occupying the property opposite, boss.’

‘What about his movements?’

‘It’s difficult to keep a track of him, as he’s in one minute and out the next.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He took off around six, and hasn’t been seen since.’

Mason checked his watch. ‘That’s almost four hours ago?’

The surveillance officer nodded, determined to keep his eyes peeled on the property opposite. ‘This is the longest he’s been away.’

‘What about the stolen Mondeo. Has he taken it with him?’

‘Yes,’ Donaldson nodded. ‘But we believe he’s disarmed it, as we’re not picking up a tracking signal.’

‘Shit!’ Mason cursed.

From where he now stood, Carlisle could see the gardens opposite were well maintained. Someone, obviously, was keeping an eye on the property. The front lawns had been freshly cut, and the driveway kept neat and tidy.

Mason leaned over to take a look for himself.

‘When was the building opposite last checked out?’

‘Shortly after six, boss.’

‘Did they find anything?’

Donaldson spun round, both hands still firmly fixed on the camcorder. ‘Sergeant Holmes reckons the suspect’s computer was bugged. Fortunately, he stumbled across a couple of rogue leads attached to the back of the server. Had he not, I guess this whole operation would have gone up in smoke.’

Mason turned to Carlisle, and nodded. ‘You were right about traps, my friend. This one’s a cunning bastard.’

‘According to the shift log,’ said Donaldson, turning a huge piece of pink chewing gum over in his mouth, ‘his actions are unpredictable, and there’s no set pattern to his movements.’

Carlisle looked at Mason, and felt the knot in his stomach tighten. If, as the surveillance officer was suggesting, the killer’s movements were erratic, it could only mean one thing. The Wharf Butcher was active.

Mason spoke first. ‘Who else is monitoring his activities?’

‘As far as I know, everyone is.’

Mason turned to face Carlisle. ‘What do you think?’

Carlisle straightened, his nerve ends tingling. ‘He’s badly injured, and full of terrible rage. It’s not redemption he’s seeking, it’s revenge. I don’t want to sound alarmist here, but in my opinion his next victim will be the person who sparked off his killing spree in the first place. He’s running out of time, and he needs to see it through.’

‘You make it sound so bloody simple, Goddammit,’ Mason cursed.

‘Harsh reality is always better than false hope, I’m told.’

They spent the next twenty minutes running back over the detail. Then, from an inside pocket, Mason handed him a crumpled blood-stained envelope. Carlisle drew back, where the light was much better.

He began to take in the content:

Dear Brett,

If you are reading this letter, it means that I’m now dead. The act of taking my own life isn’t something that I do without a lot of thought. Sadly, there are no other options left open to me, and I can no longer come to terms with the appalling mess that I now find myself in.

Four years ago, I invested my life’s savings into a company called Gilesgate Construction. Assured of a good return, I thought no more about it. On reflection Gilesgate is a well-known, highly reputable multi-national conglomerate, who deal in global warming initiatives – or so I was led to believe. Not until attending my first annual board meeting, did I learn that my initial investment had reached a staggering one hundred fold their original value. Not only that, once my dividend had cleared my bank, I found I was contractually bound into the system - ad-mortem – until death. Naturally suspicious, I began to take a closer look at Gilesgate’s activities. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to discover. Gilesgate Construction, it seems, has managed to infiltrate the ranks of the European Environment Agency. Having devised an ingenious system of bribes, its Chairman, Sir Jeremy Wingate-Styles, is able to use his political influence within the European Council’s decision-making plans. It’s a water-tight scam, and one that has netted a staggering £3.5 billion Euros from the Central European banks.

As you can well imagine, these past few months have been a living hell for me. Not only that, I have placed my entire family in an untenable position for which I can never forgive myself. My only request, dear friend, is that you deal with my affairs as best you see fit. Everything I know about Gilesgate’s illicit activities has been documented and locked away in my safe. Should you or any of your colleagues wish to pursue this matter further, you have my sincere blessing.

Goodbye and God bless

Gerald.

There was nothing more to say, the letter had said it all as far as Carlisle was concerned. ‘How did you come by this?’ he asked.

‘I found it under his body.’ Mason cleared his throat. ‘Brett Jones was his legal adviser, besides his being a close friend of the family.’

‘It must have come as a real shock to them.’

‘How would I know?’ Mason shrugged.

‘
What
!
You mean you’ve––’

‘Goddamn it! The ACC should never have reduced himself to such indecision. The moment he knew something was wrong, anything, he should have pounced on it.’

They were standing now, facing one another across a narrow landing.

‘What happens when the IPCC puts two and two together? They’re bound to––’

‘Who cares?’ Mason shrugged. His voice was stressed, but his determination never faltered. ‘He got what was coming to him. Let’s face it: the old sod was driven by pure greed.’

‘All the same he––
’

‘Think about it,’ Mason interrupted. ‘The honour and integrity of the force are at stake here. God knows what the press will make of it all, if they ever found out.’

Nothing would happen until Monday, of course, and that’s when the IPCC hearing would take place. In the cold light of day the ACC’s greatest fear wasn’t death. If it had been, then he couldn’t have committed suicide in the first place. No, thought Carlisle, his greatest fear was the disgrace he’d brought upon his own family. Mason was right. The moment the Independent Police Complaints Commission had begun to look into Gilesgate’s financial affairs, the Acting Chief Constable would have known the game was up.

Then the penny dropped.

‘No wonder he ordered you to stay well clear of Gilesgate,’ Carlisle said, and smiled.

‘Too damn right,’ Mason retorted. ‘The old sod knew he was finished, the minute the Fraud Squad was involved.’

‘Conscience can be a funny thing, Jack.’

‘Thankfully he documented everything down. And now we know why.’

Mason looked at him, physically shaken, and there was bitterness in his voice. No wonder he sounded agitated. There were so many scenarios, so many imponderables; it was difficult to work out. Not only were Mason’s resources stretched, the killer’s unpredictable antics were putting undue strain on the rest of his team. If that wasn’t bad enough, the odds were now heavily stacked against him and he didn’t know which way to turn.

Back inside the surveillance room, DC Donaldson was in the middle of adjusting the camcorder.

‘Anything . . .?’ Mason asked.

The surveillance officer grunted some inaudible muttering, and continued with what he was doing. From what Carlisle could see, very little had changed. The house opposite was still empty, and there wasn’t a Mondeo standing on the driveway. Not a good sign, he felt.

‘It’s not looking good, Jack.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Mason sighed.

‘There must be a way out of this mess, surely.’

Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘What if we bag this maniac, and the rest of Gilesgate’s board all in one fell swoop?’

‘Great idea, but how do you propose to do that?