The Wharf Butcher, page 15
These people were obviously expecting this to be more than just a social visit.
His first impression of Lewis Paul was a man suffering from an obsessive-compulsive disorder. His attention to detail was mind-boggling. Pouring coffee into bone china cups that appeared far too expensive to drink from, Paul meticulously checked and double-checked that everything was in its rightful place.
‘I take it that this is your first visit to Gilesgate’s Operational Headquarters, Miss Collins?’ said Paul.
‘Yes,’ Jane replied, giving Paul another admiring glance before settling back in the comfort of a large leather armchair. ‘It’s certainly a beautiful building.’
‘Have you visited any of our other regional sites?’
‘No. This is our first port of call.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll be frank with you,’ said Jane. ‘We prefer to visit by appointment.’
Paul reached for the sugar bowl. ‘Security informs me your people have been checking on our flood construction sites.’
‘I can only . . .’ Jane’s voice tailed off.
Typical, thought Carlisle. His business partner had really gone and put her foot in it – big style. But he didn’t care. He still had an ace up his sleeve.
‘Perhaps you would prefer the police deal with the matter, rather than us,’ he said.
‘Do I have an alternative, Mr Carlisle?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, brushing the biscuit crumbs from his trousers.
‘But is there a difference?’
‘I believe so. Besides, we have absolutely no interest in the criminal aspects of this case. That’s strictly down to the police to deal with. Of course, there’s always the off chance they might treat this matter somewhat differently.’
Paul’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s all about trust . . . eh?’
Carlisle nodded, and took out his notebook.
Just as he thought they would, Gilesgate had done its homework. If not Lewis Paul, then someone else in the organisation with a personal interest in the case had. They should have approached this differently, gone for the jugular instead of pussy-footing around. They hadn’t, and now they were on the back foot.
There followed an awkward pause, a repositioning of the sugar bowl.
‘I believe you were acquainted with Charles Anderson, Mr Paul?’ Carlisle said.
Paul squirmed in his seat, as if taken aback. ‘That name’s not familiar – no – why?’
‘Let me remind you,’ Carlisle said, eying up another biscuit. ‘Up until his death, Charles Anderson had conducted well over eighty-million pounds of legal agreements for this organisation. Surely you must have come into contact with him at some stage or other?’
Paul’s reply was blunt. ‘That may well have been the case, but I still don’t recollect the name.’
‘You don’t sound very convincing. I’m––’
‘Let’s be clear on one thing, Mr Carlisle. This site is strictly an Operational Headquarters; here we deal with overseas clients and our European counterparts in the supply of consumables to the construction industry. Legal matters, and in particular financial affairs, are of little concern to us here. May I suggest you take this matter up with Sir Jeremy, or even one of the Board of Directors? Not me.’
Paul was lying; the strained looks on his face had told him so. Carlisle took another sip of his coffee, a brand he did not recognise. ‘You mentioned, Sir Jeremy––’
‘Yes, Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles, he’s the Chairman of the Board. He doesn’t work here; he operates from Lakeside House in Northumberland.’
Carlisle made a note of it and flashed Jane a puzzled look.
‘And what about Annie Jenkins,’ he asked. ‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘In what respect?’ asked Paul.
‘How would you describe her?’
Paul clasped his hands, and lowered his head in thought. ‘Annie was a good-natured person, but she did have her difficulties of course. She was a big miss. It was such a shock.’
‘Yes, it must have been.’
There was an exasperated sigh, followed by a repositioning of the milk jug.
‘Of course,’ Paul went on. ‘Annie’s drink problem was no secret to anyone in this organisation. Try running a business when one of your key members of staff has an alcohol problem, it’s not the easiest matter to deal with. I can assure you of that.’
‘I can well imagine,’ he nodded.
Carlisle detected a hint of nervousness in Paul’s voice, and decided to exploit it. ‘Before she resigned her position from Gilesgate, am I correct in saying that Annie was Sir Jeremy’s Personal Assistant?’
Paul drew back looking somewhat stunned. ‘You surprise me; Annie never resigned – she was dismissed for gross misconduct. I thought you people were aware of that.’
Jane’s dark eyebrows raised a fraction, as she took down the details.
‘Are you able to saywhy she was dismissed?’ Carlisle probed.
‘Certainly not, that was strictly between her and Sir Jeremy.’
The atmosphere in the room had suddenly changed.
‘Can you think of any good reason as to why anyone would want to kill her?’
Paul puffed up. ‘That’s outrageous. How can you possibly say such a thing?’
Carlisle sat silent for some moments, thinking, absorbing this. Newcastle had seen its fair share of murders over the years, but this one was totally different. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Was Annie ever threatened in anyway?’
‘No. Definitely not,’ Paul insisted.
‘What about workmates?’ Jane asked.
Paul waved her aside. ‘This is not the place to ask those types of questions, Miss Collins. You need to talk to her ex-husband about that. Not me.’
Carlisle pulled back, knowing full well the police had already eliminated Annie’s ex-husband from their enquiries. As more information began to unfold, the sheer scale of their investigations soon became apparent. This was a massive undertaking, the scale of which Jack Mason had grossly underestimated. His eyes shifted to a pile of folders sitting on a small side table. Written across the top of one of the files were the words: FLATLAND FLOOD BARRIER. He made mental a note of it, and decided to dig deeper.
‘I presume you keep medical records of all your employers?’
‘Jesus!’ said Paul sitting bolt upright in his chair, clutching a half-empty cup of tea. ‘What kind of enquiry is this? I thought you people were private investigators – not the police.’
Carlisle collected his thoughts, and narrowed his eyes towards Paul. ‘I was merely asking if you kept medical records, Mr Paul. That was all.’
‘Then the answer’syes, but where is this all heading?’
‘The police believe the killer has connections to your organisation, Mr Paul. That’s why I raised the issue.’
Paul gave a nervous twitch of his head. ‘What makes them think that?’
‘You need to think carefully. I’m sure we can handle these matters with far more discretion than the police ever would.’
‘That may be true, but––’
‘This shouldn’t be taken lightly,’ Carlisle advised. His tone was calm and controlled, despite the fact that he was angry. ‘You do realise we’re dealing with murder here.’
‘I appreciate your concerns, but I need a little more time.’
Carlisle held Jane’s gaze as he leaned over and set his coffee cup down on the table. His suspicions were well founded; Paul was floundering, and it was time to press home his advantage. If the killer was a member of the organisation, which he now very much doubted, then his medical condition would surely have followed him. If not, then it would prove his theory was correct. It was a win-win situation, in his opinion.
‘You mentioned that Sir Jeremy operates from Lakeside House,’ Carlisle began. ‘How does that tie in with his political interests?’
Paul’s jaw dropped. ‘Surely that’s the Chairman’s business. Not mine.’
‘But wasn’t Annie Jenkins, his Personal Assistant?’
‘I’m not sure where you are coming from, Mr Carlisle.’
He watched as Paul squirmed awkwardly in his seat, and desperately tried to compose himself. The director was trembling, and his breathing was sporadic. ‘You mentioned earlier that this site was strictly an Operational Headquarters. And I quote . . .we deal purely with overseas clients and our European counterparts.’ Carlisle paused for effect, and then closed his notebook. ‘Unless I’m grossly mistaken, there seems to be a conflict of interest here.’
‘Tell me, what are your concerns?’
‘Five people are dead, Mr Paul, that’s my concern.’
‘I hope those accusations are not aimed at anyone in particular; if they are, then I strongly refute them.’
‘Well I wouldn’t let it––’
‘I know my employees,’ Paul interrupted. ‘None of them are capable of committing such despicable atrocities.’
‘What about sub-contractors, I suppose you can vouch for them too?’
‘I . . . err . . . believe––’ Paul’s voice tailed off.
‘Perhaps we should start by me interviewing everyone in the organisation, Mr Paul.’
‘That’s preposterous.’
‘But is it?’
‘You know it is. Besides, I doubt you understand the implications of such a request. In order for me to sanction that, I would need to speak to someone in higher authority.’
‘I see,’ said Carlisle. ‘And while you are at it, perhaps you might care to mention that a serial killer is at large and targeting your board of directors. That should do the trick . . .’
Feeling pleased with himself, they exited the building into bright sunshine. Lewis Paul was no fool; the young executive was obviously under no illusions as to the seriousness of the situation, but would he cooperate?
Probably not, he thought.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The day of Annie Jenkins’ funeral, Jack Mason had all but turned Saint Oswin’s church in Wylam into an impregnable fortress. Ten miles west of Newcastle, Wylam village, the birthplace of the famous railway pioneer George Stephenson was now in a state of mourning. Not that it concerned Jack Mason; his main objective was to catch the Wharf Butcher, and he was determined to do that.
The skies, overcast, a light freshening breeze was throwing the occasional splodges of rain on the pavement when David Carlisle stepped into Saint Oswin’s churchyard. Further south and close to Wylam railway station, DC Harry Manley sat guarding the southern approach over the River Tyne. A few miles further north, Sergeant Morrison had parked his unmarked police vehicle in a small overgrown lay-by close to the A69 – an east-west dual carriageway that ran between Newcastle and Hexham. Intrigued by a cluster of journalists sheltering under umbrellas, Carlisle recognised one or two plainclothes detectives mingled amongst them. Nothing had been left to chance, or so it appeared.
Just after eleven o’clock, the slow moving cortege finally came into view. The hearse, carrying the small oak coffin, was adorned with white and yellow flowers and messages of sympathy. All along Church Road, the streets of Wylam – where Annie grew up – were lined with people wanting to pay their respects. It was a large turnout, including a strong contingent of past and present Gilesgate employees. Minutes later, as the four black limousines drew up alongside the ornate wooden lych-gate, close family and friends solemnly filed into the church. High up on St Oswin’s south tower, a lone police photographer was merrily clicking away at anything that took his fancy. If the killer’s curiosity had got the better of him, there was every chance he was now amongst them.
The minute the coffin was carried into the church, Carlisle slipped unnoticed through the east wing vestry door. Never the religious type, he felt uneasy from the moment he first set foot in the place. He loathed funerals at the best of times, believing they were always long drawn out affairs with an abrupt anti-climax. Now a hive of activity, this bat ridden haven had been turned in a temporary operations centre. Packed to the rafters with computers and high-tech electronic recording equipment, the tech boys had done themselves proud.
‘The man in the black shirt and jacket,’ Mason said.
With the speed and dexterity of a top court stenographer, the young police technician sat at the computer keyboard ran a quick facial recognition check over the suspect’s features. Shrouded by dark sunglasses worn across narrow features, the dubious facial image that suddenly exploded across every computer screen in the building sent a shiver down Carlisle’s spine. If this was their man, there was every chance of detaining him.
‘How’s that, boss?’
‘What do we know about him, Parker?’
‘He’s six foot two, weighs around two twenty – late twenties––’
‘Damn!’ said Mason, slumping back against the back vestry wall. ‘Even I can see that – does he have form?’
‘I’m on it, boss,’ Parker grimaced.
Mason mumbled something inaudible, and began rubbing his right calf muscle. This was their first real breakthrough, and the pressure was mounting. The moment the young technician’s fingers danced across the keypad, a ripple of excitement ran through the room.
‘There!’ said Mason, ceasing the moment.
Everyone froze.
Finally, and to everyone’s dismay, the tiny monitor screen flickered, wobbled, and then stuck in freeze frame mode. Something was wrong, but nobody could put a finger on it. Then, from the back of the room, a printer began to spew out a long list of would-be candidates. Impossible odds at the best of times, thought Carlisle, but how would Mason react. To move now would be to blow their cover, to do nothing was unthinkable.
‘It’s got to be him!’ said Mason through clenched teeth.
‘He’s certainly shifty looking,’ DS Wallace acknowledged.
‘And the right build, George.’
‘Yeah, a little over six feet I’d say.’
‘Try zooming in,’ said Mason.
Startled, the technician’s long skinny fingers punched in another series of commands before he finally sat back and waited for the computer to respond.
‘There!’ Mason said excitedly. ‘The bastard’s limping.’
Everyone just stood there as if some deadly virus had struck their midst. As a dozen pairs of eyes bore down in anticipation, the DCI instinctively wavered. In an odd way, Carlisle felt relieved that it wasn’t him now calling the shots.
‘What’s it to be, boss?’ said Luke James anxiously.
Mason’s voice sounded like a dark rumble. ‘Easy, lad’s, let’s not rush it.’
Before David Carlisle had even reached the vestry doorway, their suspect had long gone. Having squeezed his tall lanky frame through the thick undergrowth at the rear of the churchyard, he’d managed to slip the net.
‘He’s heading for the village!’ a voice rang out, from high up on the church tower.
It was Carlisle who spotted him first, the moment the suspect clambered over a tall garden fence and disappeared from view down the other side. Within seconds a dozen police officers had made a bee-line for a long row of terrace houses set back from the village green. After fifty yards they stopped, and peered into the hedgerows and gardens. The light drizzle had now turned into a heavy downpour. Drenched, and knackered-looking, a young policewoman staggered out from one of the side gates. Her uniform, covered in mud, her face flushed.
‘You see him, Constable Ellis?’ Mason asked.
The young Constable shook her head. ‘No. He’s not come this way, boss.’
A voice crackled over a nearby detective’s radio.
‘Suspect heading for the Ship Inn,’ a voice boomed out.
Gritting his teeth, Carlisle sprinted as fast as he could towards the far end of the street. Following in his wake, barely ten paces behind, Mason was breathing deeply and struggling to keep up with him.
‘The bastard’s gone to ground!’ a police officer yelled, pointing to the pub car park.
‘Check under the vehicles,’ Mason shouted.
The rain, now lashing down, was bouncing off the tarmac. The gutters were a river of water, and the pavements full of puddles. Soaking wet, Carlisle followed Mason in through the pub door and into the warm lounge. As a dozen plainclothes police officers stood motionless in the centre of the room, the lounge doors suddenly burst open.
‘He’s not in the bogs, Jack,’ Wallace shouted.
For one brief moment, they could have heard a pin drop.
The rain dripping down Mason’s face, he checked out the clientele. Given the seriousness of the situation, there was every chance he would grab a couple of statements – but he didn’t. It was lunchtime, and the majority of people were still tucking into their meals and completely oblivious to their surroundings.
Outside, the rain was still bouncing down, and another rumble of thunder could be heard. Then the radio waves fell silent. Even the sky continued to grow ominously darker. The only obvious explanation, when it came, was that the suspect had gone to ground. Reluctant to admit defeat, Mason shook his head in disbelief. Whoever it was they were chasing, had simply vanished into thin air. If not, then he would probably be miles away by now.
Carlisle saw the helicopter before he heard it. A couple of miles to the north of them, moving east, its thin white spotlight beam cutting through an overcast sky with such intensity that it created a strange vaporous glow over the tree tops. Nobody moved, but a quiver of excitement stirred the team. A few feet away, Sergeant Morrison’s voice suddenly boomed out over a radio handset. ‘Oscar Five, I’m in pursuit of a red Lotus Élan sports car – heading east along the A69 dual carriageway.’
Jack Mason’s foresight had paid off. The suspect was attempting his escape through the back door – east, towards the city. If anyone had doubts as to the suspect’s intentions, they were quickly dispensed. Then the sudden wail of police car sirens. Moments later, blue lights flashing, as three patrol cars tore past him at speed.
The chase was back on.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It had stopped raining when Carlisle finally arrived at the crime scene. Traced to a row of terraced houses on the outskirts of Newcastle, it would be big news locally, of course. He sat for a while, and weighed up the situation. Skewed across the entrance to a mini supermarket, two police officers in an unmarked Volvo were busy turning traffic away. Even forensics had beaten him to it. Garbed in their white sterile paper suits, overshoes and rubber gloves, they were examining an abandoned red Lotus sports car. Alongside it stood Sergeant Morrison’s empty patrol car. Its driver’s door open, blue flashing lights in stationary mode, the Sergeant was nowhere to be seen.
