The Wharf Butcher (3 page)

‘Did she say who these people were?’

Jane flushed, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘No, but she believes they’re part of the Met’s Murder Investigation Unit. It seems the senior officers are keeping a very tight lid on things.’

‘That’s odd.’

‘I know, especially when these people have been allocated their own separate floor of the building.’

There had to be a simple explanation, he reasoned, a training exercise or perhaps a combined force initiative. Besides, it wasn’t unusual for the Metropolitan to assign a team of specialist officers to another force. He’d been there before, many times, but it still didn’t add up in his opinion. There again, he thought, if something of major importance was taking place they may be trying to keep it from the media. Half-cocked stories made good headline news, but usually spelt major trouble for the police back-room staff.

But why allocate these people their own separate floor of the building?

‘What else did your friend tell you?’ he quizzed.

‘Apparently your name is being bandied around.’

‘What!’

‘Well that’s what the Deputy Chief Constable’s secretary was saying.’

As the pen dropped from his fingers, it hit the floor with a clatter. He thought about picking it up, but chose not to do so. It had been five-years since his redundancy, so why the sudden ‘U’ turn?

‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked.

‘How do I know, I–– ’

‘Did your friend say why my name was mentioned?’

Jane shrugged as if not knowing; only adding to Carlisle’s frustration.

Chapter Four

Carlisle woke with a start, his mind full of possibilities regarding Jane’s new lead. Who were these new faces from the Metropolitan who could command such total anonymity? The combinations seemed endless. In the end he went downstairs, and made a mug of strong black coffee, before falling asleep the only way he could – propped up in the comfort of an old easy chair.

It had stopped snowing when he finally called in at the office on Fowler Street in South Shields. Jane was busy, but had agreed to contact the Chief Constable’s secretary in the hope of finding out more about the Met’s covert activities. It was a long shot, but anything was worth a try, he thought. The rest of the morning was spent dragging his heels in and around solicitors’ offices. Picking up the dregs, small-time petty crime and endless hours spent snooping around the seedier side of some mistrusting partner’s nocturnal activities. That was the nature of their work of late, unimaginative, predictable
–
financial desperation dressed up in the guise of criminal profiling.

Just before lunch, Carlisle
met with an old colleague. A retired police officer turned local crime reporter, who worked fo
r
The Shields Gazette
.
Mark Patterson was a tall man, elegant, with wispy chestnut-brown hair swept back at the sides. He handled the headline news, and had an extraordinary talent for sifting out scandal. Never shy on sharing a good story, they had coffee together, exchanged information, and chatted over a local girl’s recent disappearance. Not all of Carlisle’s cases were straightforward, and he’d been warned to stay well clear of this one. As luck would have it, the young girl turned out to be a one-time budding entertainer who, having fallen on hard times was looking for a publicity stunt to rekindle her broken career. He’d been well advised, and his colleague had saved him endless hours of legwork. Before leaving, he informed Patterson about the stolen Mondeo – the one recovered from the River Tyne the previous day. His reporter friend was all ears.

After lunch, the sun appeared. Still cold, the blustery North Easterly winds that had been buffeting the coastline all day had finally subsided. Now it was a pleasant afternoon. Crossing into Fowler Street, he noticed a small group of hawkers stood huddled around the back of an open white transit van. Tightly bound together by some peculiar sense of communal secrecy, to Carlisle’s trained eye they were obviously up to no good. He made a mental note of it. On another occasion, he would have undoubtedly checked them out. Not today; he had more important things on his mind.

Nothing much of interest in his in-tray, he braced himself for the worst. A few missed phone calls, a couple of e-mails and another blank page in his dairy. Wonderful! Just when he thought things were picking up again. It was then he spotted the large brown envelope. It was sitting on Jane’s desk – the kind hastily put together by a frustrated admin clerk who hated her job. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since Jane’s last visit to police headquarters; now this.

‘I see the postman’s been.’

‘It arrived this morning,’ said Jane.

Carlisle detected a twinge of excitement in his business partner’s voice.

‘What is it?’ he enquired.

Jane bit her bottom lip.
‘How the hell would I know, it’s marked for your attention.’

A memory tugged at him. A reminder of the dreaded tax forms that regularly dropped through the letter box at the end of every tax year. Tax forms are full of endless questions, his father once told him. How damn right he was.

‘Special delivery, no doubt?’

Jane appeared hesitant. ‘No, it was handed to me by a rather hunky looking Detective Chief Inspector.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Just before lunch,’ Jane replied.

He checked the label again, marked: CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. Police jargon for hush-hush material, but on whose authority he wondered. It certainly didn’t look official, he was convinced of that. On closer examination, he could see the flap had been resealed with two thin strips of masking tape. Tight bastards, he cursed, it’s been recycled.

‘A DCI you say?’ Carlisle said, trying his utmost not to sound too overly enthusiastic.

‘Well that’s who he told me he was.’

‘Did he––’ Carlisle checked himself. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘Yes. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Mason.’

‘Jack . . . bloody. . . Mason!’

Jane pulled back as if her feet had suddenly been cut from beneath her. ‘He spoke highly of you, and insists you meet up with him again.’

‘I bet he did. No doubt the emphasis was on . .
.
insists
.
’

A stunned silence followed.

Carlisle took another deep breath, his eyes firmly fixed on the envelope. The first thing that came to mind was, how in hell’s name had Jack Mason managed to reach Detective Chief Inspector? The last time they’d worked together, Mason was suspended from Special Branch duties for shooting a drunken female barrister involved in a frenzied knife attack with one of her regular clients. The barrister survived. Only just. Found guilty of manslaughter, she’d been sent down for ten-years. Mason, meanwhile, got off with nothing more than a stiff reprimand. The newspapers were full of it. Not only was Mason made the villain of the piece, the press had turned him into the people’s hero. Some things never change, he cursed.

‘I take it, you know one another?’ said Jane.

‘We worked at the Met together.’

‘Ah, that explains it.’

He stood in stunned silence for moment. The mere mention of Jack Mason’s name could only spell one thing . .
.
troubl
e
. If Jane thought the contents of the brown envelope were the key to their salvation, she was sadly mistaken. He studied the disappointment in her eyes, the rejection. One thing for sure, he would need to tread carefully.

‘What else did Mason tell you?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘Oh come on, he must have said something. Jack Mason has never been shy when it comes to conversation.’

Jane remained calm, as if retaliation was pointless.

‘He’s in a tight corner, apparently.’

‘No surprises there then!’

Jane sighed. ‘It’s down to these recent cutbacks, and he’s short of a criminal profiler by all accounts.’

‘Ah. So that explains why my name popped out of the hat?’

Jane stared at the flickering computer screen. ‘He seemed genuine enough. He’s here to investigate a recent spate of murders apparently, and believes there could be a connection.’

‘Really . . . and what else did he tell you?’

‘Not a lot.’

Carlisle leaned forward with interest, both elbows on the table. Jack Mason was no fool. The man was obviously looking for a way out. A spate of murders, possibly linked, could only mean one thing. He thought about it, still trying to come up with a rational explanation as to why Mason would want a criminal profiler. His biggest concern right now would be the media. Headline news never excited Jack Mason at the best of times. Although he did have his media critics – more than a few – he knew how to handle them.

‘I take it he’s looking at the nature of the crimes?’

‘Not in as many words, but he did express his concerns as to the psychological aspects of the case.’

Carlisle fumbled the envelope, straightened, and moved back to face the window. Mason was an arrogant sod at the best of times, in more ways than one. Besides, everything had to be done his way, which left little room for anyone else to manoeuvre around in. But why was he clutching at straws? Surely the police would have plenty of forensic evidence to link these murders. Unless . . . of course. He paused, took another sip of his coffee, and tried to get his head around it. The case sounded tempting enough, but was it the right move, he asked himself. There again, he’d been so wrapped up in his own personal grief lately. Jane was right: he needed to snap out of it, move on, and find a way of coming to terms with it.

Their eyes met.

‘I know I can be irritable at times, but I know what’s right for us. Mason’s thick skinned, he’s a difficult beast to work with at times. Hard-hitting coppers usually are. Never underestimate their tenacity to succeed; beneath the surface there’s always an underlying mean streak. They’d rip the skin from your very back, sooner than look at you. Our problem is this,’ he said, pointing back down at the envelope. ‘The minute we tear back the flap, is the minute we step into Jack Mason’s world.’

‘If you feel so strongly about it, why not tell him to sod off?’

‘It’s not about the money, Jane, it’s all about the principle. I don’t want our business to be run by some arrogant, hot-headed copper. Those days are over I’m afraid.’

‘But we’re strapped for cash, David, and up to our eyes in debt.’

There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Then he saw reason. If Jack Mason was assigned to the case, then it had to be something special. Mason wasn’t the sort of copper to be involved in routine murder.

He fumbled the envelope again.

‘What if I opened it?’ said Jane. ‘You can always blame me.’

‘I’m–––’

Jane stared at him with her big blue eyes, leaving him in no doubt what she was thinking. Tearing open the flap, she removed a DVD and several neatly folded documents. From what he could see, someone had gone to work with a yellow highlighter marker pen, besides adding copious notes to the side column of each report.

‘This is awful!’ said Jane.

As the story began to unfold, Carlisle’s attention was instinctively drawn towards the nature of the crimes. The killer, whoever he was, was extremely proud of his handiwork by all accounts. Charles Anderson, who ran a high-end legal practice in Newcastle, had been murdered in broad daylight. Two Northumberland farmers had been bludgeoned to death. Two separate crimes, both intrinsically linked, and both carried out within a six week period of one another. Whoever was responsible for this type of violent crime was usually a very dangerous person to deal with. Solving their murders was all too often like working in a minefield; you trod carefully or you got yourself blown to pieces in the process. Right now Carlisle could think of a dozen reasons why he shouldn’t accept the case, but couldn’t bring himself to say it.

‘Were any valuables or money stolen from the property?’ he asked.

‘There’s no mention of it.’

‘Sexual motives, then?’

Jane shook her head again. ‘Nope, nothing of that nature mentioned.’

‘But that may have been the killer’s initial intentions,’ he said, staring across at her.

‘I thought this case would interest you. Take a look for yourself.’ Jane handed him the files. ‘In the meantime, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’

‘Hold it . . . young lady,’ Carlisle said, raising his arms as if he were holding back a large steel door. ‘We’re going nowhere until I’ve spoken with Jack Mason.’

‘That could be difficult,’ Jane replied.

‘Why?’

‘Because Mason insists he has his answer by ten o’clock tonight.’

Carlisle drew back, but the urge to accept was too great. He peered down at the case files, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. In his mind, it was already a done deal.

‘Where do we go from here?’

Jane looked across at him and winked. ‘I see what you mean about Jack Mason.’

‘Oh, and what is that?’

‘When Mason says jump, everybody jumps . . . feet first by the look of things.’