The Wharf Butcher (30 page)

‘That wasn’t my question,’ Mason groaned.

‘But we’re fast running out of time, Jack.’

‘I realise that––’

Oh, shit, thought Carlisle, still trying to think positively. Not the best of situations to be in, but there again, he’d been in a lot worse.

‘You do realise he’ll stop at nothing until he gets what he wants.’

Mason eyes narrowed, but he refused to comment.

‘I can’t speculate,’ Carlisle went on, ‘but he’s out there somewhere and closing in on his next target.’

‘Get to the point!’

Still deep in thought, it seemed as though Mason had completely run out of ideas. What to do next, thought Carlisle. Then it came to him. ‘The Mondeo . . . we need to stick close to it,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s the one key tool in his armoury. Without it he’s lost.’

‘So he does have an Achilles heel after all,’ Mason grinned.

‘Yes, and he needs it to finish the job.’

Mason’s face contorted and twisted in concentration. There were times when he looked seething and mean, and others, when he looked calm and calculated. Right now, Mason bore the look of indifference.

‘That gives me a terrible dilemma.’ Mason sighed. ‘If I move against Gilesgate now, then I’ll take away the killer’s next target. What to do?’

Carlisle sensed the logic, but the answer came naturally to him. ‘If it was me making those decisions, then I’d stick to my original plans. Our suspect’s mind is focused on a tried and tested system. As long as we don’t spook him, your plans have every chance of succeeding.’             

‘So we stick with the Mondeo?’ Mason shrugged.

‘If it were me, I would.’

Mason’s look was mean. ‘In which case we sit tight, and sweat it out.’

Chapter Fifty

Later that day

Henry Fraser ran an index finger around the lip of his glass, his eyes fixed firmly on the circular movements. ‘This Jack Mason knows far more than he’s letting on,’ Fraser said. ‘He’s been pushing his nose into our affairs again, and he’s asking for trouble.’

The sparkle was gone. Ever since the Assistant Chief Constable’s untimely suicide, Sir Jeremy had barely slept a wink. The net was closing in, and it was only a matter of time before the police would come knocking on everyone’s doors. The Chairman’s face looked mean, as if hungry for answers.

‘How much does Jack Mason know?’

Fraser screwed his face up, enjoying the limelight. ‘I’m told the Fraud Squad is now involved.’

‘What are they after now, I––’

‘Tell me,’ Fraser interrupted. ‘Why did the Commissioner blow his brains out?’

Sir Jeremy seemed to wait for Fraser to elaborate, but he didn’t.

‘I have absolutely no idea, Henry.’

‘I don’t like what I’m hearing, you were closer to him than any of us and yet you know nothing?’

‘Who knows why he chose to end it all, perhaps he had no other option.’

Fraser brushed aside the chairman’s indignation, knowing full well he was clutching at straws. The future looked grim, and plans were afoot to slip out of the country on board Cleveland. Apart from him, that is. Fraser had other ideas.

‘I’ve formed my own opinions as to why he pulled the trigger, and you lot don’t want to go there,’ Fraser said. ‘Once a copper, you’re always a copper in my books.’

Sir Jeremy peered over the top his spectacles. ‘Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, Henry. But it still doesn’t resolve our problems.’

No doubt about it, Fraser thought, the man certainly had balls.

Fraser eased back in his seat and spread his enormous hands on the boardroom table in front of him. The cuffs of his shirtsleeves were turned up, his huge biceps preventing him from turning them further. ‘I presume you guys are still planning to skip the country tomorrow?’

Sir Jeremy flashed him a stern glance. ‘What are you suggesting, Henry?’

‘I’m not. I’m merely making a point, that’s all.’ Fraser’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘If these paedophile charges were to stick, wherever you go you’ll be hunted down. You know that. Those types of crimes never sit well with the criminal world. These people have a specific way of dealing with paedophiles, and it ain’t good . . . I can assure you.’

‘What the hell are you trying to say?’ Sir Jeremy insisted.

There was menace in Fraser’s eyes.

‘These rumours I’m hearing, it ain’t looking good-––’

Sir Jeremy raised a hand to cut him off. ‘The police still haven’t charged me with anything, and the main witness is a raving mad lunatic. What do you have to say about––’

But before, Sir Jeremy could finish, Fraser had retaliated.

‘It’s making me uncomfortable, it ain’t right.’

‘But it’s true,’ Sir Jeremy protested.

The tension between them was mounting, and Fraser wasn’t sure who he could trust anymore. Where others saw problems, Fraser saw opportunities and it was this aspect he was now working on.

‘This whole damn charade is media driven. Believe me; those bastards certainly know how to milk a good story.’ Nods of approval gathered pace. ‘I know I’m right,’ Fraser went on. ‘Fortunately I’m not on the receiving end of the Wharf Butcher’s knife. You guys are, and you need to shake out of it. Tomorrow you’ll all be out of here, and sailing into warmer climates.’

‘Is there an alternative?’ Sir Jeremy nodded for Fraser to elaborate.

‘No. I just thought I’d mention it . . . that’s all.’

‘I’m convinced Mason’s no nearer to catching this maniac than you are, Henry.’

Fraser sensed Sir Jeremy’s predicament, but refused to be drawn in by it. Fear, it seemed, had leached into the boardroom like a virus. Talk was cheap, and it was time to move on.

‘In my books, it’s the Wharf Butcher who holds all the trump cards. And that’s another thing,’ Fraser said, tapping an index finger on the boardroom table. ‘I’m convinced Jack Mason is trying to lure his killer into a trap.’

Having remained silent throughout, Mike Findley lit another cigar, eased back in his seat and exhaled a huge cloud of cigar smoke. The ex-stockbroker was on more than just speaking terms with Fraser. They were regular drinking partners, and as such, were often seen together frequenting the local gambling clubs. Mike Findley knew a thing or two about investments, and had always kept Fraser’s financial affairs in order for him. In return, if anyone gave Mike Findley a problem, it was Henry Fraser who usually sorted it out for him. It was that kind of relationship.

‘Tell me,’ said Mike Findley. ‘What’s Mason up to now?’

‘The man’s a dickhead as far as I’m concerned, but he’s not as daft as he makes out to be. He’s playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse with you all, and none of you can see it.’ Fraser made a little sweeping hand gesture. ‘Sooner or later he knows this maniac will come looking for one of you, and when he does, Mason will be sat in the side-lines and waiting to pounce.’

Mike Findley’s face had turned a pallid colour. ‘Don’t tell me he’s using us as human bait, surely not?’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Mike,’ Fraser chuckled.

‘If this hunch of yours is true,’ said Sir Jeremy, ‘it seems we’ve all gravely underestimated Mason’s understanding of the situation.’

‘I could be wrong, of course,’ Fraser replied, holding up his huge hands.

‘I doubt it, Henry,’ Mike Findley said. ‘You always speak at lot of sense.’

Fraser sat unmoved for a moment, conscious of the things unsaid. The last meeting had been a difficult one – for Sir Jeremy at least. The big man leaned over in his seat, and made a show of checking his watch. ‘Let’s hope this Wharf Butcher moves sooner rather than later. In the meantime, you guys need to relax and let me do the worrying.’

Sir Jeremy hesitated, and then said, ‘What if we get to this Wharf Butcher first?’

‘I’m still working on it,’ Fraser shrugged. ‘Tomorrow you’ll be carrying an extra passenger on board.’

‘Like who?’ Mike Findley said, nearly choking on the stub of his cigar.

‘This one only has a one way ticket, Mike. It’s to the bottom of the North Sea.’

Nervous titters of laughter broke out around the table.

‘How confident are you?’ Sir Jeremy asked.

Fraser hit back. ‘Never doubt my ability, Sir Jeremy. Besides, I now know who’s behind these killings.’

Fraser was playing with his words, attention-seeking. It was his way of dealing with the problem, his way of staying in control. The only high point, if you call it that, was the look on Sir Jeremy’s face.

‘These plans of yours,’ Mike Findley said. ‘They’re obviously financially driven.’

‘That’s the deal, Mike. That’s what you people pay me to do – any objections?’

The room fell silent again.

Chapter Fifty-One

It was 10.02am.

The engine still running, Lexus steered the stolen Mk3 Mondeo over the kerbside and viewed the house from a distance. He was hungry; he had not eaten in fifteen hours now. There was nothing but calm when he rolled down the driver’s side window, and inhaled the cool morning air. From his position, everything seemed in order. There was new mail in the letter-box, and the small upstairs window – the one he left open last night – was still open. Even though the house appeared empty, what untold dangers lay within, he had no idea. Not everything had gone to plan, at least not today it hadn’t. Besides, this whole area gave him the creeps. He preferred the roughened edges, where the challenges were far less predictable.

He checked his rear mirror.

Then he heard voices!

What do you think of your new home
?

‘It’s perfect, maybe I should keep it for my own.’

Why not, you’ve earned it.

He paused, as a young woman in a blue Nissan saloon drove past him on the opposite side of the street. The car was at a snail’s speed, and barely ticking over. Bemused, and riddled with self-doubt, he spotted a small child strapped into the backseat of the car. It was fast asleep and dreaming in la-la-land, just as it should be at this time of day. Then he realised, the young woman was driving on the wrong side of the road. Panic gripped him, and he was thrown into utter turmoil again. Who was she, and why was she driving on the wrong side of the road? Swearing quietly, he hesitated, filled with indecision and the fabric of uncertainty that threatened to draw him ever closer towards the trapdoor of insanity.

‘Does reality really exist?’ Lexus asked.

Only in the darkest corners of your mind
,
the voice in his head replied.

Lured into false security, his inner thoughts moved ever closer towards the dark side. He was eight years old, with big blue eyes and a lily-white complexion to match his long blonde curly hair. As the illusion intensified, so did his sense of judgement. If this wasn’t a dream, could the silver cloud he was riding on be real? There, beneath his feet, stood a beautiful white house. It was awesome, as if his past life had unravelled before him. Drawn in through an open bedroom window, he tried to focus his mind. In his dream he was lying face down on the bed, and the image of his perverted father standing over him. Gripped by darker forces, he lunged out, towards the ghost like apparition that dared to call himself his father. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and his mind played tricks with him. There was nothing he could do to stop the merciless beatings and vulgar acts of abuse that were taking place before his very eyes – nothing.

He reached out, infuriated with rage. Both hands firmly wrapped around his father’s throat, he glared at him. ‘Was there ever a creature left abandoned as much as I was, Father. Was mine a life lost? From the moment I was born you despised me. Shut away like some animal, only to be brought out and abused as a plaything. You are the beast that created me . . . you, not me. How dare you call yourself my father?’

Squeeze tighter, Lexus
.

‘I am,’ he cried out. ‘I am, and with all my might.’

You must squeeze tighter, Lexus. This monster must never slip through your fingers again. Do not let it happen.

‘It won’t . . . I promise you.’

Only then did his eyes shoot open.

Only then did the truth unfold.

There, playing on the car’s windscreen was an eerie red spectral of light. He sat for a while, transfixed, as it danced as a firefly hovered over a still pond. Then he spotted movement. His eyes narrowed and the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. Fear gripped him, and the knot in his stomach intensified. Tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe anymore. Not twenty feet away stood a solitary figure. He was bolt upright, tall, with a strong jawbone pushed out from beneath a black woollen balaclava. Motionless and standing beside him was a large German Shepherd. Panic ripped through him as never before.

Then, the inner voices returned.

You still awake?

‘Yes, numpty, a genius never sleeps.’

Really! Isn’t that the devil’s beast now standing before you?

Only the cushion of darkness lay between truth and sanity – a bleak world full of evil writhing demons, and terrible nightmares. His head was pounding, and his heart threatened to explode inside his chest. Overcome with rage, Lexus beat his fists against the dashboard in a final act of revulsion. This was no dream, this was reality, the here and now gone mad.

Then, in the darkest corners of his mind, a wave of fear washed over him.

‘What should I do, mama?’

You will think of something, my son.

‘Like what? I can’t think of anything anymore?’ Lexus cried out.

You must, before the evil beast devours you.