The Wharf Butcher (31 page)

Chapter Fifty-Two

It was ten-fourteen when Luke James finally set foot on the driveway outside the surveillance house. How much longer Jack Mason’s plan would hold up was anyone’s guess. Shielding his eyes against the bright morning sunlight, he glanced across at the stationary Mondeo now sat opposite him.

Its engine still running, its driver still at the wheel, James stood transfixed. An observant man, he could see the blue Nissan saloon as it slid effortlessly towards him from the end of the street. Right on cue, the young Detective dipped her headlights as she drove past him. Strapped into the rear seat of the vehicle, he recognised his daughter’s favourite doll. God, it looked so real, even he could have sworn it was a young child. It was perfect. They weren’t out of danger yet. One false move and it could all end in disaster. Even so, thought James, nothing could move in or out of the cul-de-sac without the police knowing about it.

Earlier that morning, many of the local residents had been evacuated from their homes. What had started as a low-key stake-out was now a major tactical firearms operation. Security was tight, watertight, James believed. With every available police officer now drafted into the area, Forrest Hall was in lockdown. All that it needed was for the Wharf Butcher to make his move. Only then could Jack Mason’s shoot to kill policy be put into operation. A single twitch would be enough, regardless of any human rights, moral values or any other ethical principles that could be thrown at the police. That’s how it would end – out here on the streets and away from the prying eyes of the media circus.

Stepping from the shade, Luke James suddenly caught sight of a thin white plume of smoke trailing from the Mondeo’s exhaust. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make his pulse race. Then he caught movement.

*

The moment the car shot backwards, the windscreen exploded into a thousand tiny fragments. It had barely moved. Close to the line of fire, Jack Mason moved his body sideways swinging his handgun with the vehicle’s slight movement. Less than ten metres away, a lone marksman had trained his Heckler and Koch assault rifle onto the slow moving target.

Mason gave the signal.

Seconds later, a short burst of automatic fire tore through the driver’s side door. Though the Mondeo had stopped, an alert firearms officer dashed to the front of the vehicle and unleashed another devastating cacophony of automatic fire. Whoever was inside never saw the bullets coming.

‘Cease fire,’ Mason commanded.

‘Hold your positions,’ another shouted.

The eerie silence that followed was broken only by the hissing of hot steam escaping from the Mondeo’s punctured radiator grill. After what seemed an eternity, Mason rose from his position and approached the vehicle with caution. His movements were deliberate, almost robotic as he dropped to one knee and checked his surroundings.

‘Cover me,’ he mouthed to the nearest police officer.

With lightening reflexes, the DCI pushed the nose of his Smith & Wesson in through the window opening and fired off two quick shots. The man who appeared to have more lives than a cat, had finally run out of luck.

Nobody moved.

Seconds later, Mason took a step forward and gently teased back the driver’s door. Sick in the pit of his stomach, he found the Wharf Butcher lying prostrate across the front seats of the Mondeo. Part of the back of his head had been blown away, and he was lying face down in a pool of blood. Breathing heavily, Mason mentally prepared himself for the unexpected. Prodding the lifeless body with the muzzle of his gun, he flinched. Then, in a last act of defiance, the Wharf Butcher’s left arm slid ignominiously to the floor.

It was over.

Blood leaking everywhere, the killer’s lifeless body was dragged from the cab of the vehicle, and unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the road. Face upwards, for all to see, even in death the Wharf Butcher’s facial expression bore an implacable smile of innocence. Straddling his suspect’s body, Mason shifted his stance. Around the serial killer’s neck hung the trophies of his appalling campaign of terror. Watches, rings, earrings and personal trinkets, all snatched from his victims’ dead bodies as a permanent reminder of the people he’d so horrifically mutilated.

Why, Mason kept asking himself. Why do these people do such terrible things?

‘You need to check this out,’ someone called out, from the rear of the Mondeo.

Mason froze, gathered his wits, and swung to face the young Constable.

‘What is it, Griffiths?’

‘Take a look at this, boss.’

Mason slid the Smith & Wesson back into its holster and trod cautiously towards where the young constable was now standing. How his patience had held as it did, he had no idea. Yes, he had made a few rash decisions, and yes the outcome had turned out even better than anticipated. But for the brilliant mind of David Carlisle, none of this would have happened. Still numb with shock, Mason was conscious he was walking unsteadily.

Get a grip
,
he cursed.

The young constable’s face had a pallid look, and his answer, when it came, seemed to take forever. ‘Here, boss,’ said PC Griffiths, pointing down into the boot of the Mondeo.

Mason just stood there, and stared at the grisly torso now confronting him. The flesh, ice cold at a touch, appeared as though it had been embalmed and kept in a fridge. Grotesque as it was, the face bore a remarkable resemblance of waxed preservation. Hacked to pieces, the hands and feet were missing, but the victim’s facial features were clearly recognisable.

‘Who is he?’ asked PC Griffiths.

‘His name is Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles.’

‘Not a pretty sight, boss.’

‘Most murder victims never are,’ Mason sighed.

All of a sudden the car’s radiator exploded under a cloud of hot steam, sending debris in every direction. Mason drifted for a moment. Eyes glazed, as he stared at the rest of the carnage. The air, filled with diesel fumes and the smell of burnt gunpowder, had a strange comforting effect on him. It was over, that much he was certain of, and people’s lives were no longer threatened anymore.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Harry Manley as he approached from one of the house gardens. The Detective’s face carried a mischievous look, and there was devilment in his glances.

‘Happy days eh, boss,’ said Manley, pushing his head into the boot of the Mondeo.

Mason regarded him quizzically. ‘That’s what happens when you go poking your nose into other people’s affairs, Harry. There’s always somebody out there who wants to chop you down to size.’

No sooner had he said it, than the rest of the team fell about laughing.

Mason had seen enough, and began dishing out orders.

His mobile phone pinged – it was the confirmation he’d been waiting for. News travelled fast, Clevelan
d
had been detained inside British territorial waters and was on her way back to the River Tyne. All that remained now was to deal with Henry Fraser. The rest, as they say, would quickly fall into place. He was certainly looking forward to his interview with Henry Fraser, but that was not until tomorrow. So far Fraser had said very little, but he had good reason to keep quiet. His lawyer, Tom Pollard, was plea bargaining and trying to reduce his client’s charges.

An hour later, and much to Mason’s relief, he was driving south along Whitley Bay Promenade and towards his favourite Mexican restaurant. He’d not eaten in hours, and his stomach was rumbling. The moment he pulled onto the curb side, his heart sank. The restaurant blinds were shut, and the place had a deserted look. Then, he noticed the hand written sign sellotaped to the restaurant window:

SORRY – CLOSED FOR RENOVATION.

Mason was furious.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Henry Fraser sat facing Jack Mason across the interview table, at Market Street police station in Newcastle. It had been a long drawn out session and the DCI was exhausted. The only positive, if there was any, was Fraser’s defence lawyer. An astute, intelligent man, who had taken copious notes throughout their interview. Up to now he had said very little, but there again he had every reason to do so. Although the evidence was overwhelmingly stacked against his client, there was still room for manoeuvre. But there lay Fraser’s problem. In offering the police some vital piece of information, there was a slim chance the charges against him may be reduced.

Mason, silent as a stone, reflected on Fraser’s last statement.

‘So you’re looking for a deal, Henry?’

‘Yeah . . .’ Fraser grunted. ‘But it depends what’s on offer?’

‘Right now,’ said Mason. ‘I’d say at least thirty-five years.’

‘
Thirty-five years
!
’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Mason grinned. ‘In my books, that will make you eighty something when they finally open the cell doors to your freedom again.’

Mason sat back in his seat, trying his best not to laugh.

‘That’s bloody ridiculous.’

‘I know, Henry. But that’s how the system works unfortunately.’

Mason was choosing his words carefully, playing around the edges with an icy cold precision. He watched as the big man swirled the remnants of coffee in the bottom of the plastic cup, as if the enormity of it still hadn’t sunk in. Fraser was trapped, and didn’t know which way to turn.

‘How do I know we can trust you?’ Fraser said.

‘You don’t.’

‘As we stand it’s only promises across a table.’

‘Of course you don’t have to deal with me,’ Mason reminded him. ‘Perhaps someone else might offer you a better deal. There again, how do you know you can trust them?’

Fraser swallowed hard. ‘This all stinks of the same shit to me, I––’

‘No promises, Henry’ Mason said, raising his hands in submission. ‘It depends on what you tell me.’

Fraser’s voice softened. ‘So what are we looking at?’

Mason tapped the folder in front of him with his pen, as if to attract Fraser’s attention towards it. ‘The more you tell me, the more we reduce the sentence. It’s that kind of deal. Not the best arrangements, I know, but it’s a lot more than your cell mates are being offered.’

There was a long pause, before Fraser’s lawyer nodded his approval.

‘What do you want to know?’ Fraser asked.

Mason pressed the concealed button hidden beneath the interview table, which started the video recording. He cherished the moment, knowing that several senior officers were also listening in on their interview. He was in no hurry. It was just a matter of dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s – and Mason was good at that.

‘Why not start by you giving me some names?’ Mason said with a wry smile. ‘Take your time; you’ve certainly got plenty of that on your hands.’

Fraser folded his arms across his chest, a defensive stance. The big man looked humble, almost resigned to his fate. He had to dig deep, and Mason could sense the hurt. Fraser certainly knew how to handle the physical side of trouble, but how good was he at handling the mental pressure. That, Mason hoped, he was about to find out.

‘Tell me, Jack,’ said Fraser, ‘how much do you know about Sir Jeremy?’

‘It all depends,’ Mason shrugged.

Fraser drew breath through his teeth. ‘Let’s skip the paedophile stuff for a minute, and talk about Gilesgate’s setup,’ Fraser said. ‘The organisation is built in the form of a pyramid. The higher up the pyramid you ascend, the higher your stake in the profits. It’s a bit like playing the stock market, come to think of it. There are different types of shares that come with different conditions and rights – if you know what I’m saying?’

Mason gave him a dubious look, but the explanation seemed reasonable. Now wasn’t the time to ruffle the big man’s feathers. ‘So,’ said Mason, ‘where do you see the Board of Directors in all of this?’

Fraser eyed him with suspicion. ‘It’s the board who run the day to day operations at Gilesgate. They’re the people who oversee the budgets, and ensure the contracts are finished on time.’

‘And what about Sir Jeremy, where does he fit in all of this?’

‘That’s a good question,’ Fraser said, growing in confidence. ‘Sir Jeremy may head up the board, but he’s not the top man in all of this. No. It’s the other guys who pull the contract strings. That’s how the system works.’

Mason nodded. ‘So, Sir Jeremy acts as a go-between?’

‘Let me put it another way,’ Fraser explained. ‘Whilst the board are dealing with the operational side of things, it allows Sir Jeremy to use his political influence. He knows people, important people, and that’s how these contracts are won over.’

‘I see,’ said Mason.

Still babbling, Fraser pushed back in his seat. ‘Like I say, Sir Jeremy can get awfully close to these people. He’s good at what he does, and knows how to win these people over.’

‘Which people are these, Henry?’

‘You know who I’m talking about. The people who dictate who’s spending what, where, and when of the taxpayers’ money.’ Fraser’s face twitched with displeasure. ‘Believe me; these guys hold the purse strings to some of Europe’s more lucrative global warming contracts.’

‘You mean Government Officials?’

‘Yeah, but don’t quote me on that,’ Fraser shrugged.

Mason drew back in his seat and turned to face him. Palms held open, shoulders slightly hunched. It was his way of teasing out the information, his way of making the subject feel inferior as if they already knew what was coming next. ‘The problem is, Henry, you’re playing around the edges and dressing the story up so to speak. If Sir Jeremy isn’t the man at the top, then who the hell is? And another thing, this pyramid you talk of – are you saying that Gilesgate is being run from elsewhere?’

‘Don’t fuck with me, Jack. You know I can’t tell you that. You should talk to Sir Jeremy about that.’ Fraser forced a rare smile. ‘Tell me, when did you last hear of a trustworthy politician?’

Still unaware that Sir Jeremy was dead, Fraser was playing into his hands. He was trapped, and lies wouldn’t save him now. Mason thought a moment on how best approach it. He took another swig of his coffee, and tilted his head back in thought. ‘We’re talking massive corruption here,’ Mason went on. ‘Tell me, is Sir Jeremy using his political clout to skirt around the CEM’s fifteen-per cent monopoly ruling, or are we talking something entirely different here?’

Fraser jerked back in his seat, as if stunned by a Taser gun. ‘How the fuck did you know about the fifteen-per cent monopoly ruling? Who told you that?’

‘I know a lot about a lot of things.’ Mason shrugged. ‘The problem is this, after this interview my superiors will be talking with the Crown Prosecution Service about your current charges. They’ll want to know how I got on. Not very good, I’ll say. The suspect is refusing to cooperate. Do you see where I’m coming from, Henry?’

Fraser squirmed.

‘You’re putting undue pressure on me, and it’s making me nervous.’

‘That’s what I’m paid to do, Henry. That’s how these things operate. Just give me a few names, and I’ll ease my foot off the pedal.’

‘It’s not that easy, and you know it.’

His back to the interview room door, Mason began to think about this. If Sir Jeremy was using his political influence to win over contracts, then who were these faceless people at the top? Better still, who was authorising the contracts? He made a mental note of it.

‘I take it Sir Jeremy pays these people good money for their services?’

‘That’s what politicians do, isn’t it?’ Fraser mumbled. ‘You only have to watch TV to see they’ve all got their snouts in the trough.’

‘Not all politicians are bent, Henry.’

Fraser shrugged in disbelief. ‘As far as I’m aware, the organisation is throwing huge sums of money in Sir Jeremy’s direction. He sees to it that Gilesgate picks up the more lucrative contracts, the ones that pay big dividends . . . continuous expansion programmes, coastal sea defences, diversionary canals, that kind of stuff. It’s big business and the CEF are willing to pay top dollar for the privilege of Gilesgate’s services.’

‘I see.’ Mason leaned forward on the interview table. ‘And who else is involved?’

Fraser dug his heels in. ‘That’s asking too much, Jack.’

‘That’s unfortunate, Henry, as most of the crap you’ve been spouting . . . I already knew.’ Mason was lying, but Fraser was falling for it. ‘Unless you can come up with names, how do I know you’re telling me the truth?’

‘Naming these people is a different matter, Jack. Even you know that.’

Mason was testing the water, and Fraser was coming along nicely. They’d covered a lot of ground, and the big man had revealed far more than he’d ever dared bargain for. Murder was one thing, but corruption in higher government office was a completely different matter. No doubt the Fraud Squad would be keen to get their hands on the interview tapes. But hey, who cared – right now Mason was having a ball.

Fraser looked him in the eye. ‘So what exactly are you wanting from me?’

‘I need proof, Henry. I need names. Who else is involved in the scam?’

There followed a short pause, then Fraser said, ‘I suggest you start with the Agricultural Minister’s department or maybe the Secretary of Overseas Affairs’ office. These foreign diplomats carry an awful lot of political clout in the European corridors of power. Mind, they don’t come cheap,’ Fraser said, pointing a finger in the air. ‘Money talks, it has a big influence on these people’s decision making.’

‘Anyone in particular spring to mind?’

Fraser was becoming more agitated. ‘You need to talk that over with Sir Jeremy – find out what he has to say?’

‘That’s not possible,’ Mason said, purposely lowering his voice. ‘Sir Jeremy’s jumped ship, and left the rest of you to stew in your own shit.’

Fraser’s defence lawyer remained unruffled; he just sat there and smiled. Mason knew then he should have been more forceful – more direct.

‘You look surprised, Henry.’

‘How come you people know all this shit?’

‘Well,’ said Mason, thinking back to his conversation with Vic Miller on Wednesday. ‘Sir Jeremy was certainly on Cleveland’s passenger list last night, but when sh
e
sailed on the early morning tide, he was nowhere to be seen. I’ve had my suspicions about that little shit for weeks now. Never trust a politician, cos they’ll always come back to bite you.’

Fraser shook his head. ‘The bastard––’

Mason stared back at him.

‘What can you tell me about his son . . . young Samuel? We know John Matthew made a bad job of taking him out – pity he lost an arm in the attempt. Tell me, Henry, when did you first find out young Samuel was killing Gilesgate board members for fun? Did you guess it was him, or did someone tip you off about him?’ He suddenly caught the anger in Fraser’s glances and decided to throw him a lifeline. ‘There is of course the question of Sir Jeremy’s sexual exploits with young children. Never liked paedophiles myself, they always leave a nasty taste in my mouth. Perhaps that’s why he did a runner?’ Mason shrugged. ‘God knows what his cell mates will make of it all when they find out he’s a paedophile.’

Fraser almost laughed. ‘They’ll string the little shit up.’

‘It’s a nice thought, Henry, but what if he mentions your name into the bargain?’

Fraser hesitated, stood, and then walked to the back of the interview room. He was angry; Mason could see it. The next twenty minutes proved invaluable, and it wasn’t long before Fraser began to unravel the facts with the devotion of a priest attending confession.

All he needed now was a name, something to get his teeth into. But the fish was refusing to bite, and it was annoying him intensely.

‘Who else is in on it, Henry?’

‘You’re moving too fast, Jack,’ Fraser answered. ‘I need assurances, or there’s no deal.’

There followed an awkward silence between them, broken only by Mason’s reluctant intervention. ‘Let’s talk about this “Flatlands Flood Barrier” contract. How do these EU deals filter back down through these Sleeper Companies? Who are the principal players, Henry?’

Fraser’s confidence suddenly grew in stature. In the end, he’d almost reached the point of bragging about his own personal involvement in Gilesgate’s business affairs. Names followed companies; companies followed structure and before too long, the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle finally fell into place. Pleased with his findings, Mason now had enough evidence to bring the whole of the Gilesgate organisation to its knees – along with a dozen top European executives.

Tiring of Fraser’s repetitiveness, Mason leaned over and flicked the video recording switch to the OFF position. It was then that Fraser realised he’d been betrayed.

‘What the fuck––’ Fraser screamed. ‘You promised no tapes – we had a deal.’

‘Deal, what deal was that, Henry?’

Fraser flayed his arms out across the interview table. ‘You two-faced son of––’