The Wharf Butcher (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

The address on the envelope read: Companies House, 4 Abbey Orchard Street, Westminster, London. Two blocks south of Victoria Street and within easy walking distance of Victoria tube station, it was Jack Mason’s old stamping ground. He knew the area well. Too well if the truth was known. Not the best neighbourhood to patrol at night, Mason thought, but at least he still had some fond memories of the place. However, for a small fee and in the relative comfort of his office, he’d purchased a DVD ROM Directory direct from Companies House. The only thing he knew for certain was that listed amongst the directory’s central archives was the past ten-year business accounts for Charles Anderson’s legal practice. A very useful tool, and one Jack Mason was slowly getting to grips with.

He soon discovered that Charles Anderson, operating from Grainger Street – within close proximity of Newcastle’s city centre – had been joined by his lifelong colleague and fellow member of the European Law Society, Thomas Schlesinger. Together they’d forme
d
Anderson & Schlesinger Law Firm
,
an upmarket legal practice serving the North East of England. He hadn’t given too much thought to it, but within a two year period of starting up, their legal practice had moved from rundown premises on Scotswood Road, to an upmarket property block in the heart of Newcastle’s prestigious business sector. No doubt Thomas Schlesinger’s professional influence had something to do with it. Nevertheless, the company’s meteoric rise to success was remarkable. On the surface everything appeared in order, but the deeper he dug, the more Mason began to uncover. Ninety-six per-cent of Charles Anderson’s business, it seemed, had been tied in with a conglomerate called Gilesgate Construction. To make matters worse, its Chairman, an articulate self-made multi-millionaire and ruthless local politician called Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles, immediately set alarm bells ringing.

Not the most trustworthy person to do business with, Mason reasoned, Sir Jeremy was a renowned Machiavellian type. Mason hated bureaucrats at the best of times, but the contrast between the imaginary world of virtues, and the real world of vices, couldn’t be plainer. Clouding the issue was the fact that Gilesgate Construction was Europe’s leading company in the building of national sea defences. Six billion pounds, as Vic Miller had said, was an enormous sum of money. But that’s what the UK’s Environment Agency had spent on climate change initiatives in 2010. The figures were mind blowing, let alone the potential business opportunities that were slushing around in the system. Vast fortunes were being made out of other people’s misery, and Sir Jeremy was a central figure in all of it.

Mason clicked the keyboard, and suddenly felt an adrenaline surge.

There, jumping out at him, were the answers he’d been looking for. Charles Anderson and Derek Riley were not only major shareholders in Lowther Construction; they were listed on Gilesgate’s Board of Directors.

How convenient was that.

Scribbling down the details, he decided to call it a day. At least for now, that is. Spring had arrived, and after weeks of continuous bad weather, things had changed for the better. Pleased with his findings, the sun was shining when Mason finally drove south towards the outskirts of Newcastle. The traffic wasn’t particularly heavy, but at the roundabout with the A69 he swung east into West Road and suddenly ground to a halt. Typical, he cursed. Not the best of places to be stuck in traffic.

Fingers tapping the steering wheel, he mentally ran back over Charles Anderson’s last known movements. The truth, all of them said, was hidden in the detail. This had to be a vendetta killing, and not as David Carlisle had predicted – the work of a serial killer. The day Anderson was murdered, he’d met with a fellow business client and lifelong friend, Bert Lawson. After outlining plans for a new £260M innovative flood development system in the heart of Newcastle’s banking sector, four hours later he was dead.

Had the Profiler got it wrong? Misread the facts? He wondered. Whatever it was that was going on inside David Carlisle’s head, it didn’t make sense anymore. There again, ever since the reorganisation, things hadn’t quite turned out as Mason expected they would. Everything had been cobbled together, disorganised, make do and mend. What’s more, his old workmate wasn’t the same person anymore. Not since the tragic loss of his wife, that is. In his opinion, Carlisle was far too emotionally withdrawn nowadays, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Maybe he should never have taken him on in the first place – gone it alone, and done things differently. He hadn’t, and he was now under enormous internal pressure himself. The mechanics of a murder investigation could be quite overwhelming at times, but something had to give. If not, he could soon find himself with another dead body on his hands, and that prospect didn’t bear thinking about.

What a bloody mess!

As the traffic eased forward, two things were preying on Jack Mason’s mind. The first was Gilesgate, and the second, Lowther Construction. Past experience had taught him that where huge sums of money were involved, it usually meant trouble. With that amount of money slushing around in the system, someone would usually get greedy. Whatever it was that Anderson and Riley had been mixed up in, it certainly wasn’t good. Maybe they’d been lured into some kind of dodgy transaction, a deal gone wrong perhaps? If not, then he couldn’t think of another plausible explanation as to why they’d been murdered.

Then he had another inspiration.

Chapter Twelve

Deep in thought, David Carlisle pulled his Rover P4 100 into the overgrown car park and switched off the engine. The Sat Nav coordinates were right, but the location was all wrong. This wasn’t the operational headquarters of Lowther Construction, surely not. To one side and dominating the skyline, he noticed the ruins of a derelict warehouse building. Its boarded up windows, collapsed roof and broken drainpipes told a story of abandonment and neglect. Having suffered extensive fire damage, the heat generated from the fire had caused one of its walls to collapse inwards. All that remained was little more than a heap of rubble.

To the left of the car park, behind a high security fence marked, WARNING – GUARD DOGS, a huge mountain of scrap metal stood. It was then he spotted the ferocious looking German Shepherd Dog as it peered out at him from behind the steel metal fence. Its collar, attached to a long thin steel hawser wire, gave it the full freedom of the compound. This was no pet, this dog meant business – best stay clear, thought Carlisle.

Then, directly ahead, he picked out a series of portable steel cabins. Set back behind a large pile of earth, their roofs had been covered with heavy-duty plastic sheeting and tied down at the corners with rope. In search of life, he pushed on regardless, even though his instincts were telling him otherwise. How he hated the uncertainty, the not knowing what was coming next. He checked the nearest cabin and from the darkness within, the air had a putrid smell. Someone was barbecuing horseshit, he told himself. God, it smelt awful.

‘Is anyone at home?’ he yelled.

Peering through the gloom, Carlisle suddenly felt the cold muzzle of the gun as it pushed into the base of his skull. Panic gripped him, and his legs turned to jelly. This wasn’t the first time he’d landed himself in a tight corner, only this time it felt different.

‘Don’t move another muscle,’ the stranger’s frail voice demanded.

Carlisle tried to turn, but the muzzle of the gun pressed harder into the base of his skull. ‘I’m Car . . . lisle . . . David Carlisle––’

‘Are you now?’

‘Yes. I’m a private investigator.’

‘Keep your hands exactly where I can see them, Carlisle.’

His ten years with the Met had taught him many things, above all, obey the stranger’s demands. Flinch, and that itchy finger might squeeze the trigger and he would join the long list of statistics. Still trembling, Carlisle placed his hands on the cabin door, just as the training manual had taught him to do. How many times had he read it – a million perhaps, maybe more? The paragraphs now firmly imprinted in his brain –
w
in over your adversary’s confidence – remove the tension barriers – talk it through.

Where the hell did it mention heart rate?

‘I’m here to investigate a murder,’ Carlisle said nervously.

‘And whose murder might that be?’

‘A man called Derek Riley.’

The voice behind him hesitated, and he sensed the indecision.

‘That’s odd,’ the stranger replied. ‘I’ve already had a visit from the police today. Tell me, Carlisle, what exactly are you doing around these parts?’

‘I’m not a police officer, I’m a private investigator. I work freelance.’

‘Do you now.’

‘Yes.’

The voice sounded a little shakier now; could there be doubt in the stranger’s mind? Then to Carlisle’s relief, he felt the cold muzzle of the gun being pulled away.

‘You should have said so in the first place,’ said the old man, now confronting him.

‘I did, and I––’

The stranger gave him a once over, then pocketed the heavy metal torch. He had a high wrinkled forehead, slicked back silver hair, and sported a large walrus moustache. The ends had been coated in a thick mixture of grease and grime, giving him a bizarre appearance.

‘You scared the living daylights out of me old timer.’

‘Did I now?’

‘You certainly did,’ said Carlisle. ‘I genuinely thought that was a loaded shotgun back there, and you were about to blow my brains out.’

‘The name’s Duke,’ the old man said, extending out a hand. ‘The next time you go poking your nose into other people’s property, Carlisle, make sure you announce yourself good and proper.’

Duke retreated back inside the portable steel cabin. From a makeshift wooden table, grabbed a handful of fat greasy sausages, and tossed them into a pan full of hot burning oil. Fat flying everywhere, Carlisle suddenly felt as though he’d been transported into another world.

‘Feeling hungry?’ Duke asked.

The thought made Carlisle retch. ‘No thanks. I’ve just eaten, and I’m––’

‘Suit yourself; the dog will eat the leftovers,’ Duke interrupted.

He watched as the old man prodded the sausage skins with the precision of a neurosurgeon, and gummed his bottom lip. They talked a while, about everything and nothing, but Carlisle was eager to push on. ‘I’m looking for a Lowther Construction Company,’ he said. ‘But I must have missed my turning back there.’

Duke shook his head and eyed him with suspicion. ‘This is the old Lowther Engineering site; but there’s never been a construction company around these parts, Carlisle.’

And yet, he thought, this is where his Sat Nav had brought him. Of course he would occasionally get it wrong, punch in the wrong coordinates, or press the wrong information button. Once he’d even ended up on the wrong side of the country, but that was a genuine mistake. Not this time. He’d checked and double checked the postcode before leaving, and this was definitely the right address.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Duke. ‘Tell me again, what was the name of the construction company you’re looking for?’

‘Lowther Construction,’ Carlisle replied. ‘One of the shareholders, a guy called Derek Riley. He’s the murder victim the Northumbria Police are currently investigating.’

‘Umm . . .’

‘I’m obviously at the wrong place,’ shrugged Carlisle.

‘Hold it, young man,’ Duke said, looking somewhat confused. ‘This is old Bert Riley’s place, and he did have a son called Derek.’

Carlisle sensed uncertainty in the old man’s voice. No doubt there would be a dozen Derek Riley’s in the local telephone directory, and he guessed he was getting his wires crossed.

‘How long ago is this?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Five years back, maybe more.’ Duke
gummed his bottom lip again in concentration, and then said. ‘Old Bert’s son certainly wasn’t into engineering. As I recall, he ran a farm up in Northumberland. Somewhere near Alnwick, I believe.’

Carlisle stood shocked.

‘A farm you say?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That wouldn’t b
e
Dove Far
m
, would it?’

‘The name sounds familiar, but I could have sworn it was called Netherton, or was that the name of the village?’ Duke stood for a minute, motionless. ‘Sadly my memory ain’t what it used to be, Carlisle. Age creeps up on all of us, unfortunately.’

‘Netherton––’

Duke grinned. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Carlisle.’

‘What else can you tell me about this place?’

He listened with interest as Duke explained how Lowther Engineering was once a thriving manufacturing business. Involved with the local shipyards, when the UK’s shipbuilding industry went into decline, old Bert Riley foresaw a grim future. A shrewd businessman, he sold off his company assets, and held onto the land as a future security investment. Sadly, he never lived long enough to reap the benefits of his ambitious plans and his inheritance fell to his only son. Thirty years on and the massive regeneration programmes now sweeping the River Tyne made this a prime redevelopment site.

‘Tell me, Duke, how long have you been keeping an eye on the place?’

‘Ten years, maybe more,’ Duke replied, looking somewhat bemused.

‘And nobody’s ever questioned as to why you’re still here?’

‘After old Bert passed away, I made a couple of discreet telephone calls . . . but they kept sending me the cheques.’

‘Cheques, what cheques are these?’

‘They come from a solicitor’s office in Newcastle,’ Duke replied.

‘That wouldn’t be “Anderson & Schlesinger Law Firm” would it?’

There was only a short pause. ‘Uh-huh, they’re the people.’

Carlisle recognised the guilt, but ignored the reasoning behind it. He watched as the old man heaped the last spoonful of potatoes onto his plate, and smothered them with a thick layer of black, greasy gravy. If Duke was telling him the truth, and he had no reason to doubt him, then Lowther Construction and Lowther Engineering were one and the same companies.

‘How often do these people send you these cheques?’

Duke scratched his temple and gave him a quizzical look.

‘Monthly. Why do you ask?’

Something was wrong. This had to be the place; even the address matched that with Companies House. Then the penny dropped. What if Charles Anderson had managed to fiddle the books – after all he was a legal adviser, wasn’t he? Carlisle smelt a rat, and knew then he was onto something. He also realised that there was probably nothing more to be gained from listening to Duke, and responded diplomatically. The old man smiled meekly as Carlisle pushed on towards the overgrown car park. Gathering his thoughts together, he climbed back into his Rover and sat for a while. Not a bad start, Carlisle reasoned, but that’s how these things usually panned out.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up alongside one of the many Tyne Tunnel toll booths, dropped some loose change into the pay toll bucket, and waited for the barrier to rise. The minute the lights turned green, he slipped into second gear, and joined the steady stream of traffic heading south. It was weird, the images that sometimes came into Carlisle’s head. Maybe it was the pub chalkboard that had set him off laughing: FREE AIR GUITAR WITH EVERY PINT. Customers hoping to pick up a free air guitar with every pint could soon find themselves leaving empty handed.

When he was younger, he’d always fancied himself as a bit of a budding guitarist. Carlisle loved nothing more than a decent guitar riff; Eric Clapton, Brian May, Pete Townsend were all part of his checklist. The nearest he’d got to ever becoming a rock star, though, was miming in front of his mother’s wardrobe mirror with an old broom handle.

Some things never change, he grinned.

It had turned five when he eventually arrived back at the office. The place was in total darkness. Then he remembered: it was Jane’s night out – a once a month meeting with friends, touring the quieter bars in South Shields. Letting himself in, he made a mug of black coffee, fired up his laptop, and checked his e-mails.

It was time to give Jack Mason a call.