The Wharf Butcher (27 page)

‘So, what’s your problem?’

Mason clicked his teeth; the intellectual side about to surface. ‘In a nutshell, the Flatlands Flood Barrier is purely a proposal to improve the North East’s coastal flood defences. It involves building a secondary line of flood barriers in order to combat tidal surges. The existing structures, seemingly, no longer provide adequate protection.’

‘This is all very well, Jack, but what the hell has it to do with catching a serial killer?’

‘You need to hear me out first,’ said Mason. ‘Considering the project is still in the infancy stages, it certainly puts everything into context. Gilesgate has already exceeded the CEF’s fifteen per cent quota, we know that, and to the tune of eight-hundred million pounds.’ More thought. ‘What we didn’t know was just how many other people are involved in the Sleeper Company scam.’

‘True,’ said Carlisle, ‘But isn’t that another matter.’

There followed another shrug. ‘We’re looking at massive fraud here, and one which includes prominent household names. Proving it is one thing, besides taking up a lot of my time. That’s why I’ve called in the Fraud Squad to deal with it.’

About bloody time, Carlisle thought. Profiling was one thing, but trying to catch a serial killer whose father was an unscrupulous politician was another. They spent the next twenty minutes going back over the detail. With so many balls up in the air, it was difficult to keep track of them all. Several thoughts ran through Carlisle’s mind. The motive of financial reward was plausible, but it defied the laws of reasoning since serial killers seldom kill for monetary gain. The truth was there were three major elements to the killer’s modus operandi: that of victim selection, access and opportunity.

It was time to make his point.

‘He’s close to home, Jack, and it’s only a matter of time before he surfaces again. It’s time we carried out a door to door search of the area. Let’s see if we can’t flush him out of hiding. Someone out there is sheltering him. If not, he’s probably lying low somewhere.’

‘Nah, there’s still plenty of low-life out there only too willing to sell me a piece of their information.’

‘I’m not convinced about that either,’ Carlisle sighed.

Mason stood for a moment before shutting down his laptop computer.

‘What if I tell you our killer’s street name is . . . Lexus?’

Carlisle sat stunned.

Chapter Forty-Six

The following day started bright and cool. Apart from an eerie, low swirling mist that clung to the River Tyne, Cleveland’s masts stood tall and firm against the familiar backdrop of Newcastle’s Tyne Bridge. Having moved to her new moorings on the Quayside, the Baltimore Schooner’s presence had certainly conjured up huge public interest. Not since the Tall Ships race had so many people viewed a sailing vessel before. If nothing else, the public’s insatiable interest was certainly assisting the police in their undercover surveillance operations.

Lurking in the shadows of St Anne’s Quay building, DS Miller adjusted the lens of his high powered telephoto camera and fired off several more shots. It was a perfect location, with clear unobstructed views of the immediate surrounding area – and Henry Fraser. Ignorant of any police presence, the big man peered in through one of Cleveland’s many hatches and into the bottomless black hole below. Adjusting to the light, he placed a large size twelve shoe onto the first rung of the ladder, and squeezed his enormous frame backwards through the tiny opening. His movements were sluggish, and as his head disappeared from view, the ladder creaked and groaned under the enormous strain of Fraser’s colossal weight.

Watching from below, Greenfingers Armstrong stared up at the huge ungainly figure now descending towards him. He was a giant of a man, and one that no ship’s designer would have ever considered in their plans.

‘Watch your head on that low cross beam, Henry.’

‘This climbing sucks,’ Fraser protested. ‘Everything about this fucking ship sucks.’

On nearing the deck below, Fraser unfolded his long legs and dropped down the last few rungs with a flurry of confidence.

‘We’ll make a sailor of you one day, Henry.’

‘Not in your lifetime, you won’t,’ Fraser cursed. ‘The sooner you’re out of here, the better.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘When I tell you,’ Fraser snarled, still trying to recover his breath after his clumsy descent into the bowels of the ship.

With barely a second’s pause, Greenfingers fired off another searching question. ‘Have there been any more developments since you people bugged my ship?’

‘The crew’s fine, it’s you I’m more worried about.’

Greenfingers drew back. ‘What. Me!’

‘Yeah you . . .’ Fraser’s lips tightened. ‘Let’s keep this conversation simple for once. Nine months ago, Gilesgate faced one of its major competitors in the law courts. It was over a technical glitch relating to some high value land reclamation deeds involving a lot of money. The case was nip and tuck, and went all the way to the wire. Thanks to a guy called Ernest Stanton, and a few hefty backhanders, the case was thrown out of the courts.’ Fraser raised his bushy black eyebrows, and stared at him. ‘Gilesgate’s rivals went bust; the legal costs alone were a staggering two million quid.’

‘Wow!’ Greenfingers gasped. ‘That’s a serious amount of money.’

‘You bet it was, and it probably cost Stanton his life.’

‘I don’t ever remember the case,’ Greenfingers confessed. ‘There again, I was probably at sea when all this took place. So, what happened to this Stanton fella?’

Fraser gave a slight shake of the head. ‘The day of the court case, he ends up dead with his throat cut. It was a nasty business, and what’s more . . .’

Greenfingers listened intently as the rest of the story began to unfold, with a few optional extras thrown in. Behind the placid exterior, there was an astute, very intelligent man, whose sharpness Fraser was all too well aware of. Ever since joining the organisation, things had never quite worked out as Greenfingers Armstrong thought they would. Deep down, he was ill at ease with Gilesgate’s secretive levels of hierarchy. Although well paid for his services, he still despised being fed second-hand information. It unnerved him, and it was a weakness that Fraser now played on.

‘The person we’re looking for is called . . . Lexus,’ Fraser chuckled.

Greenfingers’ interest levels gathered pace.

‘Does this Lexus go by any other names?’

‘Yeah, the Wharf Butcher.’

‘What!’

‘You heard. When I catch up with him, I have a little job for you.’

That settled it. That’s how Henry Fraser normally dealt with his problems – no questions asked – a one way ticket to the bottom of the North Sea.

‘Lead weights and feet first, Henry?’

‘Whatever!’ Fraser sniggered. ‘One thing for sure, the organisation is willing to pay good money for your services.’

‘Cash in hand?’

Fraser nodded. ‘Yeah, crisp new readies.’

‘When?’ said Greenfingers licking his lips.

‘Never mind when, it’s important we dispose of him clinically.’

Greenfingers’ face began to twitch. ‘So why are you telling me all of this?’

‘Cos . . .’ Fraser despaired. ‘Everyone’s sick and tired of looking over their shoulders nowadays. Nobody knows where this butcher’s knife will strike next. That’s why Sir Jeremy is prepared to pay good money for his disposal.’

They were standing now, looking out over the starboard bow of the ship. Below deck the smell of chargrilled fish wafted through the air, catching Fraser’s nostrils. It smelt good, and Fraser felt hungry. It had been two long hours since he last ate. Four eggs, six rashers of bacon and a tin of beans, to be precise!

‘So what are your plans for me?’

‘I’m waiting for Sir Jeremy to get back to me. When he does, I’ll let you know what the arrangements are. Until then, you’re to sit tight.’

‘And do what?’ Greenfingers replied.

Fraser stared hard at the ship’s captain; his eyes were cold and detached.

‘Over the next few days, four important guests will be joining your ship, and when they do, they’re to be made comfortable.’

‘Do we know who these people are?’

Fraser rolled his eyes, tired of Greenfingers’ relentless questioning. ‘Make sure you have enough supplies to get them to South America.’

‘South America!’ gasped Greenfingers.

The big man turned away.

‘Colombia––’

Stepping from the gangway, Fraser filled his lungs with a fresh intake of sea air. With the cool bag slung loosely over his shoulder, he retraced his footsteps back along the Quayside. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. Close to the Tyne Bridge, he took one last lingering look at Cleveland. She was a fine looking vessel, and one that the north-east public had certainly taken to heart. It was strange how some things panned out. Somehow the view always seemed much better from dry land, and that, Fraser reassured himself, was the way it was going to stay.

*

Fifteen minutes later, and Newcastle’s Quayside was busy. Apart from a few tourists, the majority of people were now heading for work. Fraser stood a while, outside the old Fish Market building, before making an important telephone call. It was then he noticed the stranger. A tall man, early forties, wearing a long black trench coat and a black Beanie woollen hat pulled down over his ears. Who was he, and what was he up to?

Fraser hung back, and sat for a while without appearing obvious. Board members were rapidly becoming a rarity, and this wasn’t his time. Not today it wasn’t. He felt for the gun, the one he’d carried with him ever since Trevor Radcliffe’s untimely ending. Prompted by the stranger’s unnatural antics, he pushed on. For once, Fraser felt vulnerable. The adrenaline was pumping, and the lump in the back of his throat threatened to choke him. Taking no chances, he ducked into one of the many back alleyways, and prepared for the inevitable. The moment the stranger drew level with him, he sprang into action. One arm wrapped around the stranger’s neck, the other swiftly brought the muzzle of the gun to his temple.

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking brains out?’

‘Shoot me, Henry, and the whole damn quayside will be swarming with police officers.’

Fraser hesitated. His hands were shaking, and his grip on the gun handle had slackened. All those meetings on Cleveland, just when he thought he’d got away with it. Caught in two minds, seconds earlier he was prepared to blow the stranger’s brains out. Not anymore. Now it was different.

‘Keep your hands where I can still see them,’ Fraser insisted.

Shabbily dressed, there was no mistaking that this was an undercover detective. The question was
–
how long had he been following him
?
His grip on the gun handle tightened, and for one split second their separate worlds stood still.

‘Easy . . . Henry,’ the stranger said, nervously.

Fraser saw the opportunity and seized upon it. ‘Show me some ID.’

The detective flashed his warrant card, causing Fraser to flinch.

‘Can I ask what you’re doing in the area, sir?’

‘Visiting friends and killing time!’ Fraser said.

The stranger remained calm, remarkably calm. ‘Let’s start by you putting that toy gun away. It doesn’t look good you waving that damn thing around in the middle of Newcastle.’

Fraser faltered then snapped out of his shell again. When he spoke his voice was assertive. ‘Purely personal protection, officer, it’s supposed to scare the living shit out of people like you.’

‘You do know it’s illegal to threaten a police officer with a weapon, sir?’

‘Yeah, but it’s just a kid’s toy.’

‘That may well be the case, but you waving that toy about can cause a police marksman an awful lot of headaches.’

For an undercover detective he was remarkably wet behind the ears, and Fraser was having none of it. But was it too late? It was time to find out.

‘How long have you bastards been tailing me?’

‘We prefer to call it low key surveillance, sir.’

‘Surveillance!’ gasped Fraser.

‘That’s right. This whole area is plagued by drugs problems, and we’re stamping down on it. When my gaffer saw you leaving that boat back there, he naturally put two and two––’

Fraser cut him short. ‘Is that so?’

‘Just for the record, may I see inside your bag, sir?’

‘Sure! Take a good look, officer.’

As the cool bag hit the pavement with a clunk, Fraser wiped the back of his hand across his lips. His hands were shaking, and the palms felt clammy. Then, as a precautionary measure, he took another step back. The moment the detective’s fingers latched onto one of the cold ice blocks, his face turned white.

‘What the––’

‘I forgot to tell you,’ Fraser chuckled.

‘I’ve been bitten,’ the detective gasped.

Fraser drew back, the tears streaming down his face.

‘Shit happens. Will that be all, officer?’

‘Yeah, for now . . .’

The moment Fraser disappeared; the undercover detective reached into a pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. Punching in a pre-selected number, the discernible change in the officer’s voice told another story.

‘Contact is armed and heading north towards the Copthorne Hotel.’

‘
Copy that
,
’ came back the reply.

‘Request backup.’

‘
Backup declined . . . on no account are you to follow him.’

The phone went dead.

DC Manley leant back against the wall and heaved a sigh of relief. Thanks to Fraser’s hesitation and his own quick thinking, he’d managed to avert a catastrophe. It was a close run thing, a few seconds more and he could have ended up as tomorrow’s headlines. Reassured, he popped another humbug into his mouth, flexed his aching limbs and took off in the general direction of Newcastle’s Quayside.

Manley did not need any more encouragement.