The Wharf Butcher (14 page)

Mason was quick to respond. ‘Having made vast fortunes out of criminalizing flood defence contracts, he’d obviously gone a step too far? This is all about money, George. I’m convinced of that.’

The room fell silent.

Carlisle put his writing pad down, and chewed over the DCI’s last statement. Mason had got it all wrong. Nothing unusual there, he thought. Besides, serial killers seldom kill for monetary gain. And another thing, there was nothing to indicate that Annie Jenkins’ murder was financially driven. No, this was about retribution; someone with a grudge. As far as he was concerned, the killer could be suffering from severe dissociative identity disorder – a condition in which two or more distinct identities or personality states alternatively take control of a person. It made more sense, at least to him it did. There again, how was he going to convince everyone else?

As the morning wore on, the raising of the window blinds finally brought the meeting to a close. It was Thursday, close to the weekend, and Carlisle was looking forward to some quality time off.

Caught unawares, Mason approached him on his blind side.

‘We need to talk.’

‘Talk, talk about what?’

‘I need to run a few things past you.’

‘Like what?’

Mason suddenly glanced at him as if they’d been lifelong friends. ‘There’s a little Mexican restaurant on the Promenade in Whitley Bay, it’s calle
d
Tortill
a
. Meet me there, seven-thirty, Monday night.’

Something was afoot, and it didn’t exactly fill Carlisle with confidence.

Not a good move, he thought.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sitting on the banks of the River Coquet, enjoying the breathtakingviews, David Carlisle could not think of a more enjoyable way to unwind, relax and retreat from the stresses of everyday life. It was a beautiful location and one full of fond memories. Earlier that morning, both he and his father had pitched their tent on a flat, grassy spur overlooking a long, gentle bend in the river. After a quick bite to eat, his father had settled down in his favourite spot, to fish for sea trout. They’d fished this same stretch of water together for as long as Carlisle could remember. With runs of salmon and sea trout and an excellent population of wild brown trout, the river offered anglers excellent sport amongst some of the most spectacular scenery in Northumberland. From early February until late October the salmon season runs, but anything caught before mid-June had to be released back into the river. There was one fish, though; a gigantic sea trout name
d
Herman
,
his father had spent a lifetime trying to catch. Somehow it had always eluded him, but today felt different.

Out in the middle of the river, wearing a fawn RT Fly vest, green Bib ’n’ Brace waders, fawn tee shirt and matching baseball cap, his father looked the part. He watched as the old man, now standing in two-feet of fast flowing water, overhead cast for the umpteenth time. Without warning, his rod suddenly bent double. Oh dear, he thought, it could only mean one thing. Herman? As another minnow was about to turn into a Moby Dick, Carlisle braced himself for the inevitable.

‘She’s a whopper, Davy boy,’ his father called out excitedly. ‘Make sure you have the landing net ready.’

‘Give him a little more slack,’ Carlisle shouted.

‘I am.’

‘He needs more, Pop.’

Picking up a large landing net, Carlisle moved quickly towards the water’s edge and closer to where his father was now standing. Experience had taught him that along this fast flowing stretch of water, it was much safer to use a net. Without one, it was almost impossible to land a fish, as simply reeling them in usually ended in disaster.

As the fish ran for the cover of deeper water, he studied the confidence in the old man’s hands. His father’s reflexes were excellent, but his brain was far too slow to react to fast changing situations. As the tip of the rod bent double, Carlisle’s heart sank. Locked in mortal combat, they were pitting their wits against one another.

‘I know your game, you sly little tinker,’ his father yelled.

The moment the fish reached safer water, Carlisle smelt trouble. Then, without warning, his father unexpectedly yanked on the rod.

‘He’s snagged, Pop,’ Carlisle hollered.

‘I’ve got him this time, Davy boy.’

‘No! You need more slack on your line.’

The old man hesitated.

Like the crack of a ringmaster’s whip, the line suddenly gave way, spilling his father into the fast running water. Carlisle had always tried to prepare himself for moments such as this, but the truth be told, his father’s pride had taken another severe knock. Landing flat on his back, he had somehow managed to keep a tight hold of his prized fishing rod – but only just. This wasn’t the first time he’d fallen into the river, and it certainly wasn’t the last. Now in his late-seventies, he still had the enthusiasm of someone half his age, but time was fast catching up with him, sadly.

‘Did you see that, son?’

‘You’re not suggesting it was him?’

‘Of course it was him. Who else could have done that?’

Carlisle shook his head in bewilderment.

‘Look how he took that fly down?’ his father went on. ‘It takes a special kind of fish to do that, son.’

‘He certainly got the better of you this time.’ Carlisle grinned.

‘Maybe, but he won’t pull that little stunt on me again.’

A memory tugged at him. Private thoughts of a small boy and a caring father who had taught him all there was to know about the good things in life. Changing into a spare dry shirt, his father returned to the edge of the riverbank – a high spot – where they could dangle their feet in the cool, fast flowing water. Theirs was an ideal location, and one in which they’d spent many a memorable day together. Snapping open the lid of the hamper basket, it appeared his father had brought enough food to keep them alive for a fortnight. Sandwiches, cheese, cakes, even a homemade sausage-meat pie, wrapped in a white cotton napkin; the aroma was delicious. Regrettably his father’s pastry wasn’t up to much. It always gave him chronic indigestion, but he never complained, accepting it as part of their little ritual.

‘The first time I brought you here, you were a young boy of six,’ his father chuckled.

‘I know, Pop, you never stop reminding me.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. You tell me at least once a month.’

His father chuckled away to himself, brushing aside an annoying wasp that was trying to get at his sandwich. He studied his father’s weather beaten face; still full of enthusiasm.

‘Did I ever tell you about the time I bought you a new fishing rod, son?’

‘No, I don’t believe you did. Why?’

He watched as his father wiped the crumbs from his chin, opened up the napkin, and went back into deep thought again. ‘It only cost me a tenner, but it was the best ten quid I ever spent. It wasn’t one of those cheap bamboo rods either; this one was made out of carbon fibre.’

‘Carbon fibre––’

‘Uh-huh. It was the best rod that money could buy in those days.’

‘You’ve never told me this story before.’

The old man’s face lit up. ‘You never asked until now.’

Carlisle thought about it, but held back. His father’s memory wasn’t all it used to be. There again, he did have a nasty habit of repeating himself at least a dozen times or more.

‘Carbon fibre – no wonder I was the envy of the school,’ said Carlisle, prodding his father’s thoughts.

‘It was a cracking rod,’ the old man said, shaking his head as if reliving a memory. ‘Times were hard back then, people didn’t have the same kind of money they throw about nowadays. Your mum and I had a hell of a struggle to make ends meet. Everything was expensive, even the price of food . . . imagine that!’

‘So how did you manage to pay for the rod?’

His father’s face fell, a guilty look. ‘Fortunately your Uncle Bert worked in a city warehouse; he knew a few people, and was forever bringing stuff back to the house.’

Carlisle grinned. ‘You’re not telling me you bought it on the black market, surely not?’

The old man chuckled to himself. Turning, he pulled on the broken fishing line, and began wrapping it around a small twig. Every now and then the line would snag, but his strong withered hands quickly pulled it free again.

‘It was definitely him––’

‘Who, Pop? Who are we talking about now?’

The old man puffed out his cheeks again and expelled a long drawn out breath. Seconds later he removed his baseball cap and scratched the top of his head with his long fingernails.

‘You know who I’m talking about, son.’

‘Herman!’

‘Who else could it have been?’

‘Are you sure it was him,’ Carlisle teased.

‘It was him all right, and I’d swear he’s getting careless.’ The old man tilted his head back as if to jog another memory. ‘He’s never snatched at my bait like that before. No, he normally likes to tease me. He’s getting up to his old tricks again, and we’ll need to keep an eye on him, son.’

‘If Herman was still alive, he would be at least fifty years old by now.’

‘Poppycock,’ his father replied. ‘That son of a gun is getting up to his old games again. One thing’s for sure, he’s lost none of his cunning.’

Carlisle sat stunned. Five months into theirhunt for the killer, and they were no further forward in catching him. Whoever he was, it took a special kind of nerve to recreate death, if that’s what he was trying to do? And yes, all of his murders were staged, a macabre theatrical performance of grotesque exhibitionism. First he would draw them in, and then he would tease them on. Catching a serial killer was not unlike catching an imaginary fish called Herman. There was a subtle difference of course: catching the Wharf Butcher would take more than a stroke of pure genius. He realised that
.
Nobody said it would be easy
.

‘What makes you think it was Herman, Pop?’

‘Of course it was him.’

‘How can you tell, you never saw him?’

‘Cos,’ his father replied. ‘Over time I’ve come to know all of his little mannerisms. The way he moves, his cunning behaviour, he won’t fool me next time.’

He had heard that story a thousand times, but never tired of hearing it. For the past thirty years, theirs had been a personal crusade; a true love-hate relationship, and one that his father would take with him to his grave. Unscrewing the lid off the metal thermos flask, Carlisle poured the last of the coffee into two large plastic mugs. They both took it black, the stronger the better. He studied his father’s reactions as he stared out across the river. He still had a good head of hair; it ran in the family, passed down through the generations from father to son. Although a little thin on top, its colour – refined silver – gave him that distinguished look that can only be acquired with age.

As the light began to fade, they packed their fishing tackle in the boot of his father’s old estate car and prepared to leave. Having bagged a few trout and a half a dozen eels, the afternoon had flown by. There was no more mention of Herman; a fish that was neither perch, bream, pike, or carp. Herman was purely a figment of his father’s imagination – or so Carlisle believed.

Forty minutes later, they approached the outskirts of Cramlington. It wasn’t despair that was dragging Carlisle down; he had no time for the dark side of the soul. No. It was his inability to uncover the Wharf Butcher’s reasoning; what made him tick?

Then it suddenly dawned on him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

David Carlisle leaned back against the bar and closed his eyes. He was having a bad day. First the fridge door had collapsed on him, spilling milk all over the kitchen floor. Then his accountant had phoned, warning him that his business was in grave danger of folding. If that wasn’t bad enough, earlier that morning, he’d dropped Jackie’s clothes off at the local charity shop and was now having grave doubts about it. He took another deep breath, knocked back the rest of his lager and tried to shrug off his woes.

Intentionally late, it was eight-forty when Jack Mason nonchalantly breezed into Tortilla Mexican restaurant on the Promenade in Whitley Bay. His mood seemed relaxed. Wearing a bright red Hawaiian shirt, blue jeans, sneakers, and sporting Ray Ban sunglasses, the DCI looked every bit the star in a ‘Hawaii Five-O’ movie.

‘I thought we’d chill out tonight, without the usual distractions,’ Mason said.

The moment the floor manager spotted him, they were ushered to a prime table overlooking the North Sea and offered a round of free drinks. Minutes later George Wallace joined them. The Detective Sergeant’s unruffled demeanour always gave Carlisle the impression he never suffered stress. Not pushy like the rest, it was the one quality that Carlisle admired most about the man. He watched in amusement as Wallace’s eyes darted inquisitively over Jack Mason’s gaudy shirt. God it was awful, reminding him of Blackpool illuminations: pillar-box red, and decorated with large olive green palm trees and white birds of paradise.

‘That’s a real snazzy shirt, boss,’ said Wallace.

‘I’m glad you like it, George, cos it’s one of my favourites.’

‘Nice one––’

Mason shuffled awkwardly. ‘How long did it take you to get here, George?’ Mason asked, desperately trying to change the subject.

‘Just under fifty minutes,’ Wallace replied. ‘I caught the Metro to Whitley Bay and walked the rest of the way on foot.’

‘So tell me, how’s your golf handicap doing nowadays?’

‘I’m still off eight, but I don’t seem to have the spare time to play nowadays.’

‘Why not try out one of the local driving ranges?’

Wallace thought for a moment, unbuttoned his top shirt button and adjusted his position. ‘Nah, it’s not my scene, Jack.’

After what seemed an eternity, Mason peered authoritatively down at the menu.

‘Don’t worry about ordering lads; I’ll get the chef to knock us up one of his specials.’

Wallace nodded his approval, but said nothing. When the starters did eventually arrive – carried shoulder high on a large pewter platter – they were placed in the centre of the table. Wine glass in his hand, Jack Mason leaned over and did a quick mental check. ‘If you like your food mild, these are fine,’ he said, obligingly pushing his fork into one of many side dishes now covering the table top. ‘But if you want your arse to glow like the cosmic universe, try these little devils.’

Without warning, the hot chilli sauce suddenly hit the back of Carlisle’s throat as if his whole mouth was on fire. God it was hot, hellishly hot. Reaching over he grabbed a jug of ice water, and took a huge swig from it. He could barely breathe.

‘As I was saying,’ said Mason, staring quizzically across at him. ‘I’m seconding George here to help in our investigations into Gilesgate. In return, I need a big favour of you.’

He’d been conned, big time. He should have realised that the minute he stepped into the restaurant. This was no social gathering; this meeting was planned, meticulously, right down to the very last detail. Even the setting was Mason’s choice. God, Carlisle cursed, how could he have been so gullible?

‘What kind of favour are we talking about?’

‘Let’s push that to one side for a moment,’ Mason said. ‘I’ve been thinking about John Matthew, and his connections with Henry Fraser.’ Mason stared into the bottom of his empty glass, his face expressionless. ‘Now that Fraser’s declared his intentions, there’s a good chance he’ll lead us to the Wharf Butcher. But there lies a problem: how much does Fraser actually know?’

Wallace shot him a sideways glance. ‘That’s a difficult one. He could be bluffing of course. On the other hand––’

Mason shook his head despairingly. ‘My gut feeling tells me there’s a lot more to Fraser’s partnership with Sir Jeremy than first meets the eye. Fraser’s got form; he’s well known to us, and has a criminal record as long as your arm. That’s why I’ve decided to put a twenty-four-seven surveillance team on the two of them.’

‘So,’ said Wallace. ‘What happens to John Matthew now?’

‘We let him stew a while, George . . . let him think about his future,’ said Mason. ‘When he does eventually recover from his injuries, he’s probably facing a twenty-five year stretch anyway.’

‘Bugger me!’ Wallace grimaced.

Carlisle stared at the two of them. ‘So what are your plans for me?’

‘I’ve been giving that a lot of thought lately.’ Mason tapped a finger on the side of his forehead, as though about to unearth another well-kept secret. ‘I need you two to run a health check over Gilesgate’s senior management for me. We need to get closer to these people, find out what we’re really up against.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Wallace. ‘But do we know where Sir Jeremy’s interests lie?’

‘One thing for sure, it’s not legitimate. No, George, this whole operation needs to be kept low-key. The last thing I need is the media getting hold of it.’

Carlisle rolled his eyes. ‘I hope you’re not asking me to work undercover?’

‘WHAT?’ Mason’s face darkened. ‘You’re a private investigator – that’s what you’re paid to do, isn’t it?’

‘Like hell it is.’

Mason flapped his hands up and down as if to cool the atmosphere.

‘At least hear me out first. If I leave it to my chaps, they’ll only go in heavy-handed and we’ll lose the initiative. No, we need a more subtle approach.’

‘That’s absurd,’ said Carlisle. ‘This has nothing to do with criminal profiling?’

The DCI looked fit to explode. ‘My first priority is to catch the Wharf Butcher, put a stop to his killing. But that gives me a major headache; we have absolutely no idea why he chooses to target only Gilesgate’s board of directors.’ Mason pushed back in his seat. ‘One thing’s for sure, wherever money’s concerned it usually brings out the worst in people.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Wallace, chewing on a piece of chicken.

‘Let’s put ourselves in Sir Jeremy’s shoes,’ said Mason. ‘There’s this maniac out there who is hell bent on tearing your boardroom apart, but you can’t go to the police. Why not? Because they’ll only go poking their noses into your business affairs, and that’s the last thing you want them to do. So what alternatives do you have?’ Mason bent over and recharged his glass. ‘You can, of course, get someone to take care of your problems for you.’

‘Henry Fraser!’ Wallace smirked, wiping the crumbs from his chin.

Mason waved his hands about as if to ward off any further distractions. ‘I’ve thought long and hard over this one; you being a private investigator, my friend, you’re better placed to open a lot more doors than any PC Plod would ever do.’

Carlisle managed a weak smile. If nothing else, George Wallace was an excellent choice. He was level headed. Besides, he had long suspected that Jane had a soft spot for Wallace, which meant the two of them would get on admirably together.

Mason emptied his glass, and replenished it from another bottle sent over with the manager’s compliments. ‘If I ever write my memoirs,’ said Mason expelling a long drawn out breath. ‘Remind me to leave this bloody mess out of them.’

‘Surely you’re not thinking of retiring, boss?’

‘The day I retire is the day I’m on the plane to Mexico, George. Cozumel, Cancun, all the faraway places where the food burns the back of your throat, and the Tequila hits your stomach like rattlesnake’s venom.’

‘Never fancied the States?’ Wallace nodded.

‘Nah, I can’t stand those Yanks. They’re too much in your face for my liking. I prefer Mexico; the people are far more laid back.’

‘If America was all that bad, then why are so many Mexicans fleeing across their borders and into America?’ Carlisle smirked.

For one brief moment Mason looked pensive.

‘Each to his own, I suppose,’ Mason said deferentially.

Yes, thought Carlisle, the night was turning out just as he imagined it would. He watched as Mason wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. His face had that anxious look, as if holding back on something. When the main course arrived, the back of his throat was on fire again. God the food was hot.

‘I’d planned to retire at fifty . . . take up a part-time job where I didn’t have to do any thinking. Sadly the ex-wife put a stop to all of that,’ said Mason. He fumbled his glass then stopped. ‘The last time you and I worked together, David, I was going through a bad patch in my marriage. You know how it is; every copper’s nightmare, late nights, heavy drinking sessions and problems at home with the kids. It was all getting too much, and the ex-wife and I needed a break from it all. That’s when we should have gone someplace in the sun together . . . straightened things out. We never did, there was always another case to solve. In the end we just stood our ground and slogged it out. When th
e
bitc
h
finally slapped a court order on me for possession of the kids, that’s when the shit really hit the fan.’

Carlisle tried his best to sound sympathetic. ‘It sounds like a bitter experience, Jack.’

‘Yeah, that’s women for you.’

‘How long ago was this?’ asked Wallace.

The crushed look on Mason’s face told him he was reliving a bad experience. He sounded different: sad, beaten and ground down. No anger, only resentment. ‘She left home around six years ago, and it’s taken me all of that just to straighten my life out again. I still see the kids, of course; they’ve all grown up now, and doing really well for themselves.’

‘That’s nice,’ Wallace acknowledged.

Throughout the evening Mason’s body language had shown signs of agitation. Something was afoot. Even so, there was no way of telling what was going on inside the DCI’s head. Even if he asked him outright, he still wouldn’t get a straight answer. No, whatever it was, Mason was playing his cards close to his chest.

‘No thanks to Sir Jeremy, this case is drawing on the media’s attentions for all the wrong reasons,’ Mason went on. ‘We’ve spent weeks now trying to find a connection to Gilesgate. Now that we’ve found one in Sir Jeremy, you would have thought the Assistant Chief Constable would have been more supportive towards us. Apparently not; the man seems indifferent to it all, and at times off-putting.’

Carlisle couldn’t understand the logic. ‘That’s odd, Jack?’

Mason’s look was stern. ‘I’ve been doing some digging around; searching the archives so to speak. Not surprisingly, Sir Jeremy is not all he’s cracked up to be. Amongst other things, I’m convinced he’s leaking confidential information to the press. Where he gets his information from is another thing. But he’s well informed.’

Mason held back until the waiter had exchanged the empty wine bottle with another house red. It was a little too bitter for Carlisle’s liking, so he ordered another fresh pint of lager. Waving a gesturing hand towards the manager, Mason recharged his glass as if there was no such thing as drink driving laws.

‘Where was I?’

‘Sir Jeremy, boss,’ Wallace reminded him.

‘Oh! Yes. That slippery toe-rag . . .’

‘I take it you don’t like the man,’ Wallace replied.

‘I detest the little bastard, why?’

‘He’s not exactly my favourite politician either,’ Wallace admitted.

Mason mouth tightened to a thin line. ‘The last time I crossed paths with him, was over that damn schooner of his.’

‘Would that be ‘Pelican’?’ said Carlisle.

Mason shot a glance at him, ‘God, you’ve got a bloody retentive memory.’

‘Wasn’t it impounded for drugs trafficking?’

‘That’s only half the story,’ Mason insisted. ‘Sir Jeremy has good lawyers. That’s why the crafty bastard renamed her Clevelan
d
and turned her into a weekend adventure training ship for underprivileged children. Of course, the story made all the headlines for all the wrong reasons and the case was thrown out of the courts.’

Carlisle shook his head despairingly. ‘You’re too well informed, Jack.’

‘Not really,’ Mason replied. ‘I simply Googled it after Vic Miller mentioned it at the last ops briefing. That’s when I checked on the ACC’s private finances.’

‘You’re not inferring he’s in cahoots with Sir Jeremy, surely not,’ said Carlisle.

‘Tell me why not?’

‘But he’s a highly respected copper.’

Mason pondered his statement. ‘Maybe, but the man has his fingers in an awful lot of pies – a lot more than some people would like to make out. I bet you didn’t know he’s made large investments into Gilesgate’s global warming initiatives?’

Carlisle hit back. ‘So what? It still doesn’t mean he’s in collusion with Sir Jeremy.’

‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Mason, shaking his head. ‘I’m not convinced it’s a legit business they’re running. Proving it, of course, is another matter.’