The Wharf Butcher (32 page)

‘What a pity,’ said Mason, shaking his head from side to side. ‘Greenfingers was right all along – he warned me you had a volatile temper.’

‘
Greenfingers
!
’ Fraser screamed, jumping to his feet.

Slamming the door behind him, Mason made a beeline for the front desk. The last thing he heard was the interview room furnishings bouncing off the walls. Henry Fraser was all he’d imagined him to be, a born loser, a twenty-five stone spineless overgrown baboon who could only throw his weight about when the odds were heavily stacked in his favour.

Thirty-five years, Mason grinned. What will I be doing then?

Chapter Fifty-Four

The following day, David Carlisle entered Northumbria Police Headquarters full of trepidation. The Wharf Butcher’s death had told him nothing. Such a violent ending had left him with far too many unanswered questions. What was it that unlocked the moral safety catch that could turn a person to perform such barbaric acts? That question had intrigued him from the moment he first clapped eyes on his victim’s disfigured bodies. If nothing else, he wanted to learn from it. Who this man was, and what made him tick. These were the questions that had pushed him to the very limits of his own mental boundaries. It was the driving force that went to the very heart of criminal profiling. Psychological input was valuable to the investigations of all crimes, not just those that caught the newspaper headlines. It was all part of the learning curve.

Avoiding a heavy media presence, Carlisle entered the building through one of the many side doors, where he was met by a small delegation of senior police officers. These were the Special Crime Attachments – the SCA, the faceless think tank – whose extended hands were now telling him his part in the police operation was over.

‘It turned out just as you predicted it would,’ Mason said, squeezing his way through a crowd of senior police officers.

Carlisle took his arm; the curiosity of the Wharf Butcher’s final moments still with him. He’d always imagined he would meet face to face with the killer, exchange confidences, reach out into the killer’s mind and unravel the mystery that controlled his impulses.

Sadly, it wasn’t to be.

‘How did it end?’

‘He was blown away in a hail of bullets.’

‘Decisive?’

‘Instantaneous, more like,’ Mason bragged.

Carlisle gazed at the others; their faces were familiar, but they were far too full of their own self-importance to be listening to what they were talking about. So this is how these people operated, he reminded himself, full of hot air and arrogance.

Carlisle gathered his thoughts. ‘I take it you didn’t get to question him?’

‘For Christ’s sake, he was far too dangerous to bring in alive. Even you know that.’

‘It sounds like you didn’t even try.’

At that point Carlisle was half expecting Mason to pull out his little black notebook, but he didn’t. Instead, he backed away, still looking suspicious. Deep down, he wanted to understand the reasoning behind the Wharf Butcher’s motives – an unsolved mystery that only the killer could answer.

‘It’s over, my friend. The Wharf Butcher is behind us now,’ Mason confirmed, as if that was the end of the matter. ‘He was far too emotionally detached. Besides, he showed absolutely no empathy towards his victims. Goddammit, you said yourself there was no cure for psychopathy. That’s why I ended it as I did.’

Mason pointed towards the foyer, the others now in tow.

‘It’s not often you get the chance to talk to a serial killer, Jack, they’re not everyday people. These individuals differ from the rest, they possess very complex personalities.’

Mason shook his head. ‘Why must you always find a need to dissect everything? These killings have stopped, it’s over, and that was my number one priority.’

‘And mine.’

‘So deal with it, for God’s sake!’

Carlisle’s mind still running amok, they dropped into silence again. It was Mason who spoke first. ‘Fortunately, this isn’t going to be a long drawn out enquiry.’

‘Dead suspects don’t stand trial?’

‘Dead suspects are less paperwork,’ Mason said, fixing his gaze. ‘I trusted in your judgement and believed you got really close to him in the end. Fortunately, you have a very specific way of dealing with these things. When you said he’d return to the house, I simply increased my numbers and waited for the Mondeo to show up.’

‘He was far too predictably organised to do otherwise.’

Mason looked at him, bemused. The DCI had no further interest in understanding the workings of a serial killer’s mind, he realised that. Homicide was homicide, in Jack Mason’s book. The quicker he got to his target, the fewer body bags he would require. His was a simple game of numbers.

‘This fraud scam is causing me a political headache,’ Mason cautioned. ‘The people involved are all senior European politicians, apparently. Needless to say, the Home Office are now involved.’

Typical, thought Carlisle. Like it or not, he would need to come to terms with it no matter how hard he fought it. The Wharf Butcher was dead and that was the end of the matter as far as everyone else was concerned.

Mason eyed him with suspicion before pulling him to one side. ‘What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential. If this leaks out, it’s probably more than my job is worth.’

Carlisle nodded his agreement.

‘The Wharf Butcher was born out of wedlock; his real mother’s name was a young woman called Emily Haley.’ Mason smiled thinly. ‘By all accounts, she first clapped eyes on Sir Jeremy at a political fund-raising rally, and after a short fling, she fell pregnant by him. To cut a long story short, when young Samuel was born, that’s when Sir Jeremy’s ex-wife agreed to adopt the child.’

‘Christ! It’s little wonder things turned out as they did,’ Carlisle pointed out.

Mason breathed in deeply. ‘It seems Sir Jeremy’s perverted child exploits were widely known in higher circles after all. What’s more, some Senior Police Officers now admit to a cover-up, and that’s why he was never brought to justice.’

Carlisle didn’t need to listen to the rest; this had been a lethal time bomb waiting to happen. All too often, the boundaries between fantasy and reality get lost in a love-hate relationship between the killers and their parents. At least there was a perfectly reasonable explanation behind it all.

Moving towards the lift, Mason allowed the others to board before them. As the rest of the story began to unfold, it soon became apparent that Sir Jeremey had made more than enough money from Gilesgate’s corruption scam. Having bribed his way into Europe’s corridors of power, no wonder the Home Office was involved. Fraud, child sex abuse, and corruption were a volatile concoction that had finally cost Sir Jeremy his life.

Mason went on. ‘Thinking back, I get the distinct impression that this all kicked off during the Ernest Stanton trial. Within hours of leaving the courtroom, he ends up dead with his throat cut. It’s funny old world.’

The monster that finally turned on his creator, thought Carlisle. He’d never considered spontaneous killing before, but it had a nice ring about it. It seemed logical. What’s more it was probably the start of things to come, the motive that drove young Samuel to kill in the first place? It would certainly have taken a special kind of mentality to do that; there again, his father’s illicit activities had probably sparked off a whole host of emotions inside young Samuel’s head. Wham bam, before anyone knew it, the ticking time bomb had suddenly clicked into place. Perhaps that’s why young Samuel chose to cut off his father’s hands, believing that crucifixion was far too good for him. If nothing else, the dates and timing were right.

‘If Stanton was his first,’ Carlisle said thoughtfully, ‘Young Samuel most certainly acquired a taste for it. Let’s face it; he certainly knew how to go about destroying his father’s empire. That’s what usually happens with these people unfortunately, humiliation can spark off all sorts of hatred inside these people’s heads.’

‘Well, there you have it,’ Mason shrugged. ‘You’ve answered your own questions regarding the Wharf Butcher’s personal motivations.’

Carlisle gave him a half-hearted smile. ‘All the same, it’s a pity I couldn’t get to question him. Now that he’s dead, we’ll never know.’

‘Probably not,’ answered Mason.

Silence hung in the air; broken only by the closing of the lift doors.

On reaching the top floor, they were joined by Colin Bradshaw, the Head of Security. After issuing a brief press statement to the gathered media, Mason, it seemed, had already turned his attentions towards other unfinished business.

‘So what was the significance of the Longshore Group photograph?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Purely academic,’ Mason replied, pointing towards the empty corridor. ‘The killer’s computer was crammed with any amount of Gilesgate material. Group gatherings, profiles, background details of those who were involved in the scam . . . you name it, young Samuel had meticulously documented everything down. He even kept dossiers on their private lives. Where they lived, what they ate and drank, even their socialising habits.’

‘I always said he was organised.’

‘Too damn right he was.’ Mason clicked his tongue. ‘I often wondered what went on behind closed doors . . . now I know.’

‘What about the absence of medical records?’ Carlisle quizzed.

Mason swung sharply to face him. ‘Let’s not go there! The bastard had a nasty habit of tapping into other people’s computer systems, including mine.’

They entered into a small side room; Mason offering him a chair opposite.

‘Thanks to you, my friend, we’ve finally nailed our man. All that remains now is for the Home Office to put the rest of these people behind bars. Now that we’ve recovered the rest of the ACC’s documented evidence, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Such a pity he had to blow his brains out, but there you have it,’ Mason shrugged.

‘So what will happen to you, Jack?’

‘They’ve asked me stay on, offered me a new position on the Serious Crime Squad. The funny thing is,’ Mason smiled, ‘I’ve fallen in love with the area. I like the people up here; they’re genuine, and easy to get on with.’

‘Oh. So what do you intend to do about it?’

‘I’m working on it, my friend.’

Could Mason finally be mellowing with age, he wondered;probably not. Jack Mason was the last in a long line of special enforcement officers; they broke the mould the day he joined the force. That’s why he was nicknamed
–
The Bulldo
g
.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Only time would tell, thought David Carlisle. Close to the city centre, a watery November sun was flooding down into Grainger Street. Despite the recent setbacks, these past few weeks he’d felt a totally different person. Never far from his thoughts, Jackie would always remain close to his heart, he realised that. Even so, he was slowly coming to terms with his loss. Life, it seemed, was certainly more bearable nowadays, and he was beginning to feel good about himself again.

Leaving the A1, he turned east towards his father’s house. It wasn’t the perfect day to go fishing – overcast with the odd few splodges of rain. Nevertheless, there were important matters to attend to. It was Saturday, and he’d been looking forward to the weekend. The moment the car pulled up outside his father’s bungalow, the old man was stood waiting for him. Wearing a worn woolly hat, heavy green windproof jacket, and thick tweed trousers, he was carrying his favourite fishing rod.

‘I guess the traffic was busy, son.’

‘Just a bit, Pop.’

His father bore that resolute look of a boxing champion about to defend his corner at all costs. Around his feet were his favourite tools of combat, fishing basket, catch nets, umbrella, folding seat, along with a large wicker hamper basket crammed full of all kinds of unknown goodies.

‘Today’s the day, son,’ his father smiled.

‘Let’s hope Herman doesn’t spill you into the river again.’

‘Not today, he knows better than to pull that little stunt on me again. Besides, I’m prepared for him this time.’

‘It sounds like we have a cunning plan up our sleeves?’

His father sounded deadly serious. ‘I have, but I’m keeping it a secret.’

As the last of the fishing tackle was loaded into the boot of his Rover, Carlisle allowed himself a rare smile. No doubt another tall story was about to surface from the depths of the River Coquet. Not surprisingly, Herman the fish and Lexus the Wharf Butcher were one of a kind. Both steeped in fantasy, both elusive to catch.

Carlisle’s mobile phone rang.

He hit the missed calls button, and Jack Mason’s number suddenly popped up on the display screen. Seconds later, the DCI’s voice message sounded distinctly rambunctious.

Call me when you’re free, my friend
.

Curious, he slipped the phone back into a trouser pocket and tried to make the connection. There again, Jack Mason hadn’t made contact in weeks, so why was he phoning him now? He stood for a moment, confused, still searching for a reason.

‘Who was that, son?’ his father asked.

‘Nobody,’ he replied.

‘Your face tells me otherwise, son.’

Carlisle smiled wistfully. ‘Just another one of those nuisance calls.’

‘They’re damned annoying,’ his father protested. ‘Once they get hold of your number, they never let go.’

He watched as the old man stared at him blankly. Something was amiss, and whatever it was he sensed his father’s angst.

‘What is it now––’

‘My house keys,’ his father said, fumbling around in his pockets. ‘I put them down somewhere, and can’t remember where.’

‘But you’ve only just locked the front door with them.’

Then he heard them jingle. Age, it seemed, was fast catching up with the old man. Although still in good physical shape, his mind wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Carlisle placed a reassuring arm around his father’s narrow shoulder – a manly gesture.

‘Best be off then.’

‘Right––’

‘We’ve got a fish to catch, remember.’

No sooner had the car swung north to sounds o
f
JJ Cale
,
and
‘
Playing in the street,
’
his father had fallen asleep. Would this be the day of reckoning? He thought.

Probably not!