The Wharf Butcher

THE WHARF BUTCHER

by

Michael K Foster

First published in Great Britain as a softback original in 2015

Copyright © Michael K Foster

The moral right of this author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Publishing by UK Book Publishing

UK Book Publishing is a trading name of Consilience Media

www.ukbookpublishing.com

In memory of Rita Day

Preface

Fear strikes him like never before. He is immediately drawn into a spiralling, bottomless pit that threatens to drag him ever closer towards the edge of eternal darkness. He hesitates, filled with indecision and the fabric of uncertainty. Nothing is real anymore, everything a dream. Then the voice in his head returns.

Have you taken your medication today?

Chapter One

Newcastle, September 2011

One of the many hated things in Ernest Stanton’s life was the number thirteen. He could never explain why, just that it was his unlucky number. Today of all days it was Friday the thirteenth, and the thirteenth day of his trial. It was shortly after two o’clock when he finally entered the witness stand. Of course he was guilty. The whole damn world knew that. What no one knew, not even him, was that in just a few hours he would be dead.

Wearing a pinstriped suit, white silk shirt and gold silk tie, Stanton looked immaculate. Few would have guessed he was wearing Santoni black leather shoes; there again, few would have realised that this was his last grand performance. His defence lawyers were reputedly the best and the presiding Judge, Mr Justice Fowler, a firm but fair man, ran Courtroom One with an iron rod. Nothing, it seemed, had been allowed to go unnoticed.

It all started innocently enough, as most marathon court cases do. Mr John Purvis QC, counsel for the Crown, took Stanton through a series of undemanding questions before making great play of his dubious background. By the time he’d finished, everyone was in no doubt that they were dealing with an unscrupulous businessman. Throughout that afternoon, Courtroom One had offered Stanton few answers, only questions, and there were many. Good barristers need to have many roles – law makers, courtroom personalities, even private detectives. The moment Mr Purvis QC accused Stanton of conducting fraudulent business activities, the defence was on its feet. Stanton’s defence lawyers were furious and so was Justice Fowler, who challenged his statement as hearsay and of little substance or value to the case. It was the turning point in the trial though, and one from which Mr Purvis QC would never recover. It was an astonishing turn of events. Even Judge Fowler’s summing up speech had brought outcry from the public gallery. But to say it was a moral victory would have been a gross over exaggeration. It was the kiss of death for Ernest Stanton.

Later that evening, as the last rays of sunlight played through the windows of Stanton’s luxury cottage, he turned the empty bottle in the fading light and brushed the dust from its label. Jameson, triple distilled Irish whiskey, matured and bottled in Ireland. A fitting blend and utterly deserved he told himself. Pouring another generous measure, this time taken from a crystal decanter retrieved from a large drinks cabinet, there was no mistaking his contentment. Ernest Stanton was more than pleased with the verdict; his lawyers had done well. Too well if the truth was known.

After a long time – how long Stanton had no idea – he began to relax. Beyond the breakwaters and further out to sea, a stiff easterly crosswind that had buffeted the north east coastline for the best part of the day, threatened to move inland. A storm was brewing. Closer to home, he watched as a small armada of fishing vessels ran for the shelter of the harbour. Tightly packed together as if there was safety in numbers, they were making perilously slow headway between the North and South Shields piers. He could think of much easier ways of making a living, and far less risky.

As the light began to fade, Stanton was inexplicably drawn in by the weird ghost-like reflections that twisted and danced across his cottage walls. What caused them to move as they did, he had no idea. The more he thought about it, the more he questioned their presence. Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. Not even the good Lord. At a glance, he thought he recognised the intruder. His face looked familiar. He was tall, lean in stature, with short cropped hair and dark penetrating eyes that cut through him with an ice-cold, menacing intensity.

How long had he been there?

Startled, Stanton eased his position and made as if to stand – a friendly gesture, non-threatening. The next thing he knew he’d been stabbed, that much he was sure of. Terrified, he clutched at his side in a vain attempt to stem the blood flow. What followed next can only be described as a moment of utter madness. First his head was jerked back, and then he felt the cold steel blade of the intruder’s knife as it slid effortlessly across his throat. Stanton crashed to the floor – sending the decanter and its liquid contents in every direction. In those last crazy few seconds, his whole life began to open up before him.

Nothing could stop the warm red torrent from gushing through his fingers. No matter how hard he pressed. Worst was the knowing, knowing he was going to die. Coughing and spluttering in a vain effort to breathe, he hauled himself back onto his elbows. Only then did he recognise the intruder, and that familiar gloating smile that only he could perform. But there was something else, something more sinister that was fuelling Stanton’s anger.

Then he remembered.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, he reached out towards the upturned table and grabbed hold of his mobile phone. He was trembling, and his whole body was uncontrollably shaking with fear. Through sticky blood-soaked fingers, he punched in the predetermined number and waited for a connection.

Then he heard footsteps.

His business here done, the intruder turned his back on Stanton and made towards the sanctuary of the hallway. It was over. At precisel
y
thirtee
n
minutes past seven, the line went dead.

Chapter Two

The door creaked open as Lexus slipped unnoticed through the rear entrance of the old wharf building. Adjusting to the dark, he searched for signs of life. Built on two levels, the building once housed plumbing materials. Not anymore. Thick stone walls, and boarded up windows and doors had helped turn this place into a perfect drugs den. Close to the river, off the beaten track, he was confident the police would never come looking for him here.

Outside the storm had decidedly worsened, the wind was blowing in every direction; with it the rain. Wearing a black leather bomber jacket, black jeans and T-shirt and Totectors safety boots, Lexus was soaked to the skin. He preferred to dress casually, for comfort, but right now his whole body was aching with the cold.

He glanced at his watch.

It was ten minutes to midnight and the streets outside were deserted. Had Ernest Stanton been found guilty that afternoon, things might have turned out differently. But they hadn’t, and the fact that Stanton was dead spoke volumes. Then in the darkest corners of his mind the voices returned.

How did he die?

‘Hideously!’

Perfect, you’re such a genius.

Numb with disbelief, he felt for the knife. The same one he’d used earlier that evening. The handle felt sticky, and slippery in his grasp. Stanton had died easily, too easily perhaps. The speed of his death had surprised him – even he had not realised that killing could be so easy. Watching the man grovel as he thrashed the air in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable, had excited him. He’d felt good about it, exhilarated. There were many ways to die, the variations seemed endless. The pure act of killing someone had somehow come naturally to him, without destructive regret.

‘The vile beast is dead,’ he laughed out hysterically.

Did he always talk to himself, he wondered?

No. Sometimes to me
,
the voice in his head replied.

Then, suddenly, he stiffened. Lurking in shadows, he spotted an unmarked police car cruising along Hadrian Road and towards Berwick Street and Marine House. The Vauxhall Vectra car’s headlights were dipped, and the occupants were wearing bullet-proof jackets.

Was it his imagination, or had he seen movement?

His throat tightened.

It was then he noticed the white Transit van, as it slowly approached from the opposite direction. Full of police support officers, all were kitted up and ready for action. As he stood there, he watched as the front passenger leaned out of the side window and shone his high-powered flashlight into the old wharf building. They were looking for someone, but who could it be, he wondered. He mistrusted the pigs at the best of times; nothing they ever did made any sense. At least to him it didn’t.

‘This is it,’ he screamed.

Gripped by uncontrollable rage, Lexus suddenly took off and into the deserted back lane, and the line of parked up vehicles within it. Several thoughts ran through his head – including the Mk3 Ford Mondeo, the one he’d nicked earlier that evening. He was almost home and dry. Just a few more minutes and he’d be long gone – free from the dangers that surrounded him.

The clock on the dashboard read one minute before midnight, when beneath the bonnet the Mondeo’s powerful two-litre Duratorq TDCI engine roared into action. No sooner had he hit the accelerator, when the menacing ‘twos and blues’ flashing police lights filled his rear-view mirror. Hoping to lose them at the next junction, he braked hard, and swung the Mondeo into the maze of back streets on the outskirts of Newcastle. He thought he’d lost them, and laughed out loud.

Then, another police car appeared, up close and intimate.

Fear surrounded him as he hit the accelerator hard and felt the seat back pressing against him. Directly ahead, he caught sight of the red traffic lights.

‘Jesus!’ he yelled, as he narrowly missed a white transit as it approached at speed from one of the many side streets. Then he heard the bang.

Open your eyes
,
the voice in his head commanded
.
What do you see?

He checked his mirrors – nothing there.

Look agai
n
.

Not more than fifty metres away, its blue spinners still rotating, he could just make out the mangled wreck of the police car. It had collided head on with the white transit van.

‘Perfect,’ Lexus chuckled.

Barely a mile from the village of Newburn, his attention was inexplicably drawn towards a low-pitched rumbling noise – akin to that of a low flying aircraft coming into land. He checked his surroundings. Spurred on by millions of gallons of impetuous rainwater, the swollen River Tyne had burst its banks. Fields, farms and houses alike were awash in a deluge of floodwater. Within seconds, the murky brown liquid was lapping round his ankles, ice cold and threatening.

Lexus sat motionless, his hands shaking, his fear increasing. Then without warning the car’s headlights suddenly went dead and he was plunged into total darkness. Caught in the river’s grasp, he felt a terrifying jolt. Swept broadside by the river’s powerful currents, the stolen Mondeo was being carried along at breakneck speed. The noise deafened him, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the seriousness of his current situation. Spurred on by millions of gallons of rampant floodwater, his whole world was rapidly spinning out of control.

He gazed at the roof; the air gap had closed.

He tried the doors; nothing. The immense water pressure now pushing up against the vehicle was preventing him from opening them.

He tried the windows; nothing. The electrics were dead.

Only then did he realise the hopelessness of his untenable position. He was trapped, and there was nothing he could do about it. Disoriented and imprisoned inside a sinking steel sarcophagus, like a thousand nightmares, his whole life was slowly ebbing away before him.

Shivering and numb with uncontrollable fear, the lower half of his body was now completely submerged under water. Panic gripped him as the Mondeo took another terrifying buffeting; only this time felt different, very different. As the weight of the car engine block finally began to seal his fate, he cried out in utter disbelief. First the nose, then the roof, the Mondeo slipped effortlessly beneath the icy black depths of the raging River Tyne.

Death, it seemed, was inevitable.

In one last desperate effort, he sucked in the last mouthfuls of air and tried to embrace the darkness. All the while his pale white face and hands pushed hard up against the window.

Then he heard voices – as sirens lured sailors to their deaths.

Try the doors again.

Both hands now firmly gripped around the passenger seat, his feet shoved hard up against the car door, he pushed with all his might.

You’re such a genius.