The Wharf Butcher (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

It hadn’t been the greatest weekend of his life, though Carlisle, as he drove north towards the Police Headquarters and his morning briefing with Jack Mason. It was ten o’clock, and his brain was now stuck in overdrive. Mason had certainly done his homework; his investigation into Companies House was a pure stroke of genius. Having unearthed a darker side to Gilesgate’s activities, much to everyone’s surprise, the DCI had decided to keep Sir Jeremy on tenterhooks. Despite the evidence being heavily stacked against the Gilesgate Chairman, there probably wasn’t enough proof to lay charges against him at this stage. To go in heavy-handed now would only open up another bag of worms. There again, what if the killer was one of the Gilesgate directors, what then?

Carlisle had thought long and hard over that. All weekend in fact.

Earlier that morning, at a place called Shillmoor in Northumberland, two police undercover officers had stumbled across an abandoned Mk3 Mondeo. Close to the River Coquet, barely three miles west of the village of Alwinton, it had sparked off a major manhunt. Recovered from the boot of the vehicle were three-dozen boxes of live ammunition, a spare change of clothing, and enough food to last a fortnight. Whoever had stolen the vehicle was obviously intending to hole up in the area.

Entering the operations room, Carlisle was immediately hit by the smell of Indian takeaway. Something was afoot, and by the state of the place, the team had worked all weekend by the look of things. Not ten feet away, several police officers sat huddled around a large computer screen. Heads buried deep in some thought or other, they appeared oblivious to his presence. A telephone warbled in the office, but no one answered it. Eventually, the person on the other end of line gave up and the phone went dead. Even Jack Mason seemed to have lost all track of time. Decidedly jaded, as if he’d spent the whole weekend cooped up inside his office, he was staring aimlessly down at a large map spread out across his desktop. Planning never was his forte; especially well orchestrated plans. Jack Mason’s arrangements were more spontaneous affairs – spur of the moment tactics – the kind written on the back of a fag-packet. This time felt different though, more organised, more controlled.

Mason lifted his head and yawned. ‘Your drifter fits the bill perfectly.’

‘Let’s hope it’s him, Jack’

‘It is, and its time he was brought to heel.’

The timing made perfect sense, Carlisle reasoned, and something had to be done. If not, the DCI could soon find himself with another dead body on his hands. Even so, the local TV channels were pushing out news bulletins at an alarming rate. The general public’s insatiable demand for answers was relentless. What was he to do? Too much publicity and the media would simply blow his cover. Too little, and the case would go cold on him. It was a fine balancing act, and one that most senior police officers had to deal with from time to time.

Carlisle spoke with caution. ‘It’s a large area, Jack. Are you sure you have adequate resources?’

‘Fortunately the Northumbria police have a mutual arrangement with other police forces, which means I’m able to draft in reinforcements as and when I require them.’             

Carlisle nodded, but refused to be drawn in. Lowering his eyes, and with Mason’s words still ringing in his ear, he gathered his composure. There were times when tactful diplomacy seemed the only real answer to combating Mason’s spontaneous actions. Now wasn’t the time for confrontation. After weeks spent trying to convince him they were dealing with a psychopath, had the penny finally dropped?

‘Do we have a description?’ he asked.

Mason swung to face him. ‘Yeah, he’s lean, six-two, and thirty-something with short cropped hair. We know he’s stolen a Mondeo, and sleeping rough in the foothills around Barrow Burn. Need I say more?’

Carlisle took a step back, holding his hands up. ‘I rest my case, milord.’

‘It’s him all right, and he’s now my number one priority.’

Oh dear, Carlisle thought. Mason’s commitment was unparalleled, but there were times when he lacked subtlety in his approach. Besides, the ammunition found in the boot of the suspect’s car still puzzled him. This wasn’t his style; he wasn’t that kind of killer. His was a more controlled approach; guns were direct, instant.

‘Do we know what type of weapon he is carrying?’

‘I’ve no idea, but the search team’s recovered three-dozen boxes of .22 LF rim fire cartridges from the boot of the stolen vehicle. That’s as much as we know?’

‘That’s an awful lot of ammunition, Jack.’

‘If he intends to finish it in a shootout, then so be it.’

The room fell silent, a stony silence that commanded a time of reflection. The strain was beginning to tell, and Carlisle detected uncertainty in Mason’s voice. His killer was still out there somewhere, and it was slowly eating away at the detective’s patience.

‘Let’s hope the weather holds.’

‘Yeah,’ Mason shrugged. ‘But I don’t need reminding about his will to succeed. If I’m reading this right, this bastard is about to get his comeuppance.’

‘It won’t be easy, Jack.’

‘Nobody said it would.’

‘Be careful, he’ll resist you all the way.’

Mason swung to face him. ‘Stopping him is one thing. But stop him I will.’

After what felt like an eternity, Mason stormed towards the open office doorway. His mood was explosive, and Carlisle could not remember the last time he’d seen him in such a state as this.

‘Wallace,’ Mason shouted. ‘You need you to organise the dog teams . . . first light tomorrow morning.’

‘How many teams, boss?’

‘Two, that should be enough, anymore and it will all get out of hand.’

‘Leave it with me,’ Wallace replied.

Mason thought for some moments, and then said. ‘We’ll need air reconnaissance to cover the Barrow Burn area. Make sure they understand what’s required.’

‘Let’s hope the bastard doesn’t drag us into the marshlands,’ Wallace replied.

‘Possible,’ said Mason, ‘but highly unlikely, don’t you think?’

Wallace nodded, but did not reply.

‘Remind everyone that my briefing starts in five minutes,’ said Mason.

Seconds later, Carlisle could hear tables being hurriedly dragged into position. Now on auto-pilot, Mason’s eyes toured the rest of the room. Things were moving at a pace, and everything that could be done, was being done. Under the terms of a voluntary agreement between the Association of Police Officers and the media, Mason had requested a total news blackout. How long it would hold was anyone’s guess. But at least it gave them some comfort.

‘It’s a pity you’ll not be joining us tomorrow,’ Mason groaned.

‘I wish I could,’ Carlisle replied, ‘but I’m a key prosecution witness in an embezzlement trial. Not the best timing, I’m afraid, but these things happen unfortunately.’

‘What a shame. Let’s hope it’s all worth your while, eh.’

The moment they stepped into the ops room, Carlisle felt the tension. Mason’s powerful presence exuded authority, as if sucking the rest of the team into a deep black hole – a central vortex full of unknown. He watched as the senior detective unfurled a huge map across two adjoining tables. Leaning over, he picked out several features with a red marker pen and stepped back.

‘OK. Listen up everyone. At first light tomorrow morning two dog handler teams will move into position north of Alwinton. Everyone else is to take up their respective positions by 6.0am. The main assembly point is close to the village. Here . . . and here,’ said Mason, pointing to two pre-marked positions on the map. ‘Directly after this briefing, those officers assigned to team ALPHA are to check with Luke James, and those assigned to team TANGO, report to George Wallace. Anyone got any questions?’

Nods of approval gathered pace. Everyone understood what was required of them – or so it appeared. Mason moved freely now, almost robotic.
‘At midnight tonight, all roads within a twenty mile radius of our suspect’s last known position will be closed to the general public. Without transport, our suspect’s only hope of escape is to move around on foot.’ Mason paused for effect. ‘Three teams, each made up of thirty officers, are to block any potential escape routes. At first light tomorrow morning, that’s 4.30am, two dog handler teams will begin their sweep of this area.’ Mason brushed an index finger across a large section of the map. ‘Their objective is to flush him out of hiding. Once out in the open, the rest should be pretty straightforward.’

Vic Miller raised his hand, and then said, ‘The Armed Response Teams, Jack. We still haven’t received our instructions.’

Mason stroked his chin in a sort of dutiful disapproval. ‘I was coming to that, Vic,’ he replied, as if quick to dispel any notions that there were flaws in his plans. ‘Every team will be accompanied by an armed response officer. Remember, we’re dealing with a crazed psychopath here, so no one is to take any unnecessary risks.’

‘Like what?’ said Harry Manley, annoyingly sucking on another Humbug.

‘You’re to work as a team, Harry. The last thing I need is gung-ho-heroes.’

Looking somewhat confused, Vic Miller scratched his forehead.

‘So what’s our brief on this one, Jack?’

‘Armed police officers are under strict instructions to use only the minimal of force. Unless a police officer finds himself or herself in a life threatening situation, only then will my “Shoot to kill” policy be implemented. Do I make myself clear on that?’

Nods of approval all round. No one spoke.

‘What about backup?’ DS James asked.

‘Good point, Luke. For that I’ve organised two rapid response teams, each made up of twenty officers. These will be placed at strategic positions . . . here and here,’ said Mason, pointing down at the map again.

As notes were taken down and opinions exchanged, a nervous fervour gripped the team. Mason raised a hand as if to draw their attention towards a more important issue.

The room fell deadly silent.

‘On this occasion it seems I’ve drawn the short straw, gentlemen. I’ll be directing operations using the services of the North East Air Support Unit’s helicopter. My call sign, should you require it, will be
‘
Roger One–
–
’

A loud jeer broke out around the room.

As the briefing drew to a close, Carlisle felt a hint of disappointment in his total lack of involvement. In turning to leave, Mason pulled him to one side. There was a glint of devilment in the Chief Inspectors eyes, as if sensing victory.

‘With any luck, by tomorrow night we’ll have this bastard behind bars.’

Carlisle said nothing, still full of grave doubts.

Chapter Fourteen

Close to a stone bridge that crossed the River Coquet, a lone undercover police car pulled discreetly into a roadside lay-by. Stepping from the vehicle and wearing a green bomber jacket, blue jeans and a black casual jumper, Jack Mason checked his bearings as he moved towards the yellow Mobile Command Truck. It was 5.45am, and the whole area was swarming with police officers, many of whom had been drafted in from specialist units from up and down the country. In what had been a well-guarded secret, Mason’s voluntary press agreement was still holding firm. But for how much longer was anyone’s guess.

Shortly after six, a lone helicopter could be heard approaching the village of Alwinton. Equipped with a Nite Sun 30 million candlepower searchlight, earlier that morning the aircraft’s powerful video and thermal imaging cameras had been put to good use. With a top cruising speed of 130 knots per hour, it was ideally suited for the work in hand. At a pre-arranged rendezvous point – a grassy knoll not more than sixty metres from the stone bridge – the helicopter finally came to rest. With its rotor blades still turning, Jack Mason climbed into the back seat of the helicopter, fastened his seat-belt and put on his communications headset. As the door slid shut, the pilot increased his rotor blade speed and began a vertical climb.

Airborne at last, Mason caught his first glimpse of the unfolding police activity below. Two miles north of Alwinton village, a mountain rescue team could be seen heading north towards the base of the Cheviot foothills. Following in their wake, two armed police officers looked distinctly at odds in such a picturesque setting. Mason was taking no chances: a potential serial killer was at large and he was determined to finish it.

Further north, after climbing out of Shillmoor, the first of the three man dog handler teams were making steady progress into the neighbouring foothills. Thick overcast skies threatened rain. It was 8.0am, and ‘Razor’, a five year old German Shepherd, was already showing early signs of fatigue. The dog was panting heavily, and his huge head was lolloping ever closer towards the ground. Too close for the man in charge of the dog handler teams. Recognising the animal’s distress, Sergeant Manton pointed towards a large wooden gate set back some thirty metres up ahead.

‘Let’s rest these mutts, or they’ll not last the distance,’ the sergeant ordered.

As the last of his men settled down into the long grass, he reached into his backpack and retrieved a large aluminium water bottle and green plastic bowl. Unscrewing the water bottle cap, he poured the contents into the green plastic bowl and gave the signal. Obligingly, ‘Razor’ pushed his long snout towards the inviting clear water.

It was gone in seconds.

‘Five more minutes, lads,’ the Sergeant ordered.

Pleased with their progress, the sergeant removed his police cap and wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow. At least the men were bearing up to the intolerable conditions, if not the dogs, he thought. Gathering his bearings, the climb ahead looked reasonable. Only the middle ground appeared tricky. Ahead lay a small ridge, along which ran an extensive meandering track leading to the summit of Inner Hill. With any luck, the dogs would soon pick up the suspect’s scent and they’d be home and dry by lunchtime. Turning to face his companion, there was an air of reassurance in Sergeant Manton’s voice.

‘The son of a bitch is still out there.’

‘I’m not convinced,’ Constable Smart replied.

The two men had been good friends, for as long as anyone could remember. A few days shy of his fortieth birthday, Constable Dick Smart was still living in hope of getting his foot on the first rung of the promotion ladder. Having spent the last six months working with the Police Firearms Team, things were looking up. Beaver, his four year old Belgian Malinois, was an expert in sniffing out and detecting explosives. They worked well together, and his dog’s reputation was second to none. Having taken part in several recent counter-terrorist operations – including work with the North East Border Agency – they’d forged a formidable partnership together.

The sergeant shifted his position.

‘I say he’s still out there.’

‘Nah, the humidity getting to you, Tom,’ Constable Smart chuckled.

Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the sergeant suddenly pointed to the valley below. Barely visible to the naked eye, and in extended line, a group of police officers were closing in on a series of derelict outbuildings. Had they spotted something?

Twenty minutes later, having reached the summit of Shillhope Law, the team began its long winding descent towards the village of Barrow Burn. The ground underfoot was treacherous, made worse by the damp slippery undergrowth. As the mountain dropped away, their final approach was met by the unexpected presence of the police helicopter, as it swooped low over their position.

Acknowledging with a thumbs up signal, the sergeant adjusted his communications headset and spoke directly with DCI Mason.

‘We’re moving north,’ Sergeant Manton shouted, through cupped hands.

‘Do we know where?’ asked Constable Smart.

‘No. But
‘
Roger One
’
has picked up a heat trace.’

‘Is it static or mobile?’

‘Mobile, and heading in a northerly direction by all accounts,’ the Sergeant replied.

Brushing down the dust thrown up by the downdraft of the helicopter’s rotor blades, the sergeant consulted his map. Spurred on by the noise of the advancing helicopter engine, there was a new sense of urgency in their stride. On dropping down into White Bridge, set back some two-hundred metres from the footpath was a narrow wooden footbridge.

‘That water looks inviting,’ the lead handler said, pointing the way ahead.

Caught in the moment a thin smile swept across the sergeant’s face. It wasn’t what Constable Taylor had said that had made him grin; it was the way his colleague had said it. Harry Taylor was reputedly the most experienced dog handler in the County. Well known to the criminal fraternity, his faithful companion, ‘Oscar’, had been setting a cracking pace that morning. Too fast if the truth was known.

Ten minutes later, after crossing a fast flowing mountain stream, the ground suddenly gave way and they were facing a more difficult challenge. Rising some eight hundred feet above their position, a steep vertical gully – lined on either side by exposed rocks – ran centrally towards the summit. It was a formidable climb, the sergeant thought, and one that involved tired dogs. Anxious, he turned to the others and gave out a new set of instructions. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the advancing helicopter suddenly swung left as it cut a northerly path between two distant rolling hills.

‘It looks like they’ve spotted something.’

‘And moving towards the summit by the look of things,’ said Constable Smart.

‘This bastard certainly knows how to pick his ground,’ another cursed.

Raising a hand in acknowledgement, the sergeant cast a critical eye over the surrounding slopes. Progress was slow, painfully slow. The heat was unbearable, made worse by the low-lying clouds forming an impregnable barrier between land and sky. No one spoke, each preferring to suffer his own torment in silence.

Then gunfire broke out.

‘Man down!’

‘Take cover,’ someone shouted.

As another bullet ricocheted perilously close to his position, the sergeant crawled towards a steep overhang. Outwitted, and hopelessly pinned down in the gunman’s deadly crossfire, he could only watch in horror as Constable Smart struggled to keep his dog in check. Fit as he was, the slightest movement and they’d both end up as tomorrow’s headlines. Drawing comfort from a large projecting boulder, Sergeant Manton readjusted his binoculars and reconsidered his options. To his left lay a steep central gully. Guarded on two sides by a sheer vertical rock face, its steepness surprised him. Like a lot of other demanding climbs he’d encountered, the higher up you went the more challenging it became. He realised that, but there were no other options left open to them. It was their only route of escape.

Exhausted and cut to pieces by falling rocks and debris, they clawed their way to the summit. As far as Sergeant Manton could see, the crest was a long flat plateau – running north to south for about one-hundred yards, and ending in a sheer vertical drop on two sides. Then, as his eyes rolled sideways he spotted some other movement. Barely forty metres separating them stood the gunman. He was a small man, lean and feeble looking, not as he’d imagined him to be. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the gunman shifted his position, and with lightning reflexes dropped to one knee.

Death came quickly and mercifully to Beaver – a well-aimed bullet to the dog’s upper torso. Scattering in every direction, police officers now dived for cover. With little or no time to think, the sergeant unleashed his dog and hit the ground heavily in front of him. In that split-second judgement, it felt as if the whole world had suddenly turned against him. What to do next? Rounds were falling perilously close to his position, much too close for comfort.

‘Take cover,’ he shouted.

Everyone heard the screams; the blood curdling pleas that rang out across the mountain top. No one dared to move. Even the wind held its breath. As the surge of adrenaline died away, the sergeant popped his head above the long grass and peered towards the gunman’s last known position. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Hit on his blindside, Razor had lunged into the gunman’s upper torso, sinking his huge teeth into his upper forearm. From what he could see, the gunman was bleeding heavily with the dog now standing guard over him.

It was over.

The helicopter’s rotors still turning, Jack Mason hit the ground running.

‘Check him for weapons,’ the DCI yelled.

Jack Mason wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to get on the wrong side of, especially in tight situations. Within seconds, the sergeant was joined by a dozen armed police officers, all eager to assist. Unconscious and still bleeding heavily, the gunman was unceremoniously rolled over and onto his back and his legs spread-eagled. Taking stock, the sergeant knelt down and checked for hidden weapons.

‘He’s clean, boss.’

‘Nice work, Sergeant,’ Mason acknowledged. ‘Your dog did a fine job.’

Glancing up, the sergeant watched as Jack Mason bent down and rolled back the gunman’s trouser leg. From what he could see, the injuries to his face were superficial. Apart from the upper forearm, which had been terribly mauled by his dog; everything else seemed fine. Then, as Mason checked the suspect’s footwear, he caught the look of concern on his face. Something was wrong, and whatever it was they were about to find out.

‘It’s not our man, George.’

‘It must be, Jack,’ Wallace replied, as a dozen fellow officers crowded forward to get a better look.

‘I’m telling you, George. This isn’t our man.’

Uncertainty spread like the plague.

‘If he isn’t our man, then who the hell is he?’

His face as black as thunder, Mason took a deep breath as he turned to the nearest plainclothes police officer. ‘Lock this bastard up, and whilst you’re at it throw away the key.’

Everyone stood gobsmacked as Mason turned and stormed off towards the waiting helicopter. No one spoke. Whoever the gunman was, Jack Mason was far from happy.

Seconds later, the helicopter took off in a northerly direction.