The Wharf Butcher, page 16
Carlisle climbed out of his old Rover and stood for moment. After several frustrating minutes, he watched as four members from the Armed Response Team moved down into Woodbine Road. Dressed in their familiar black flack suited body armour, black police caps and traditional high leather boots, they carried with them the familiar Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbine. It was a long, straight, narrow road, with cars parked on both sides. Close to a Medical Centre, a group of journalists had been joined by a couple of out-side-broadcast vans. Huddled in a doorway, a news presenter appeared to be checking her notes. It was then Carlisle spotted the two technicians sat operating what he judged to be a long distance listening device; its parabolic microphone pointing at a house some fifty metres away.
Then he heard Mason’s voice.
Gathered round him, and looking like drowned rats, were George Wallace, Luke James, and an elderly gentleman whom he took to be a trained negotiator. They were accompanied by a tall blonde woman, mid-forties, smartly dressed wearing a dark green jacket and clean-cut black trousers. Standing alongside her was the tall, suave figure of DI Swan and another well-dressed gentleman whom he judged to be the Scene of Crime Officer.
‘You eventually made it,’ said Archie Swan cheerily.
‘I got delayed,’ Carlisle nodded.
‘This is George Hill; he’s the man in charge of the situation.’
They shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries.
‘We’ve reached a bit of a deadlock,’ said Hill. ‘Our suspect refuses to answer the door, and has barricaded himself inside the property.’
‘Do we know who he is?’ Carlisle asked.
The SOC manager grimaced. ‘We’re running a few discreet checks on the address. The red sports car, the one used in his getaway . . . it was stolen. That’s as much as we know at the moment, but we’ll keep you informed of any new developments.’
Oh dear, Carlisle thought. This wasn’t his style. The Wharf Butcher preferred to do his business in a Mondeo, and this was a red Lotus Élan? Gathering his bearings, he noted that Woodbine Road ran in a north-south direction, approximately two-hundred metres long with terraced houses on either side. Both ends of the street had been cordoned off, as were the nearby approach roads. According to the latest intelligence reports, one of the adjoining houses was occupied by a young Asian woman with two small children. The other, thankfully, was empty. With this amount of firepower available to the police, Carlisle reasoned their best chance of recovering the situation would be one of stealth and surprise. Storming the property was too fraught with danger; even a snatch and grab approach would be difficult. But how Mason would deal with it, was anyone’s guess. Even so, it was a tricky one and not the easiest of stalemates to bring to a close.
Someone spotted movement, and a dozen gun sights homed in on a large black wheelie-bin. Barely ten feet away, Jack Mason had already brushed his jacket aside and unclipped the holster flap of his Smith & Wesson. After some moments the wheelie-bin lid flew open, and out popped a big fat ginger cat.
The look on Vic Miller’s face was priceless.
Approaching from the blind side, two police officers and highly trained explosive experts began to apply breaching explosives to the suspect’s front door frame. At the same time, a dozen red laser pointers from the NART’s Heckler & Koch zoomed in on the ground floor windows. As the door blew inwards under a cloud of white-hot vapour, there followed a second explosion – much louder than the first. As a dozen screaming police officers piled into the building, smoke bellowed out from inside of it.
It was over in seconds, the incapacitating effects of the stun-grenade having effectively disoriented their suspect. Lying face down and handcuffed. Mason had wasted no time. In one swift movement he flashed his badge of authority under the assailant’s nose, and reminded him of his rights.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Mason of Northumberland CID, you’re under arrest.’
Still confused, the suspect shook his head as if he had water in his ear.
The DCI took a step back. ‘I want this whole area sealed off. Nobody comes through that door until Tom Hedley has finished here. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, boss,’ the nearest officer replied.
The situation now strained, Mason grabbed Vic Miller by the arm. ‘As soon as the Scene of Crime Manager gives you clearance, I want this whole building turned upside down.’
‘What are we looking for, boss?’
‘Whatever,’ Mason replied. ‘I need answers, and this place is holding them.’
‘I’m on it,’ Vic Miller replied.
‘Good man.’
Carlisle followed Mason in through the tiny, smoke filled hallway, and out onto the street. The air inside was oppressive, and his eyes were still smarting from the gas released from the stun-grenade. And another thing he noticed, the noise from the controlled explosion had set off dozens of car and burglar alarms. With all the media hype in the case, it wouldn’t be long before one of the news reporters appeared on the scene and began interviewing one of the local residents. There was always someone willing to tell their story, thought Carlisle, even if the truth was heavily distorted.
Mason squinted. ‘Ah! The very man,’ he said, pointing out DS Wallace.
‘Me?’ said Wallace, as if taken aback.
‘Yes, you George,’ Mason replied. ‘You’re to escort our suspect back to Gateshead Police station. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll join you there.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Follow me . . .’
Moving through a throng of police officers, they were met by the Specialist Dog Unit teams. Muzzled, the police dogs appeared agitated. Undeterred, Mason spoke to one of the handlers before re-entering the building. Now back in control, the DCI was in his element, which was more than Carlisle could say for his suspect’s appearance. Completely disoriented, eyes all over the place, he had somehow managed to stagger to his feet. Smoke still filled the building; it hung in the air, a bitter taste.
Carlisle watched as Mason’s eyes swung resolutely left. ‘This cockroach needs suitable accommodation, George.’
‘The luxury suite, I presume?’
‘That’ll do nicely.’
Wallace stepped forward and took a firm grip of the suspect’s right arm. ‘You heard the nice gentleman, you’re nicked.’
‘And while you’re at it,’ said Mason. ‘Tell the desk sergeant to turn up the cell heating. I want this bastard to feel as uncomfortable as possible.’
‘How does deep fry sound, boss?’
‘That’ll do nicely, George.’
The suspect stared at them as though they’d arrived from another planet. His eyes full of hate, the veins in his neck stood out as if he were about to kick off again. Wallace was having none of it, and the moment he protested his handcuffs were too tight, the detective forcibly dragged him outside and bundled him into the back of a waiting police car.
Carlisle’s phone, on silent, vibrated in his pocket. He checked the display screen and returned the call. The stand-off had lasted a little over three hours, but there was no point in him hanging around anymore. The day had flown by, but there was still a nagging doubt over the suspect’s identity. If this was the Wharf Butcher, then why had he chosen a Lotus Élan? Experience had taught him that serial killers seldom stray into unfamiliar territory. So, why the sudden change of mind, he asked. Besides, the suspect’s gait was all wrong, and he looked far too immature. Even so, the cock-sure grin on Jack Mason’s face said otherwise.
Oh dear, Carlisle thought.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The following morning
Ignoring the lift, Mason stormed out of his office taking the steps two at a time. On reaching Forensics he threw back the door, a record journey of thirty-two seconds flat.
‘My DNA results,’ he demanded. ‘Are they ready, Chris?’
Doctor Chris Brown was a lean, long-backed, medium-built, balding man, with a stern flushed face and thick bushy sideburns. In all his years he’d worked on forensics, he’d probably never witnessed such a dramatic entrance as this before. Looking distinctly the worse for wear, like a thousand hangovers, Jack Mason edged closer. Dressed in a crumpled white open neck shirt, brown corduroy slacks and white trainers, it was as though he’d slept the whole night out in them.
‘Well! Are they ready?’
The doctor lifted his spectacles onto his brow, and from a large brown folder removed an official looking document, placing it on the workbench in front of him. The look of anticipation on Mason’s face had surely warned him there could only be one outcome.
‘It’s – err––’
‘Good man,’ Mason grinned.
The doctor shuffled awkwardly. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean!’ said Mason, with a face like thunder.
‘We’ve taken blood-samples from your potential suspect, and compared them against the killer’s genetic marker code––’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘We can’t find a DNA match,’ the doctor replied. ‘It’s all laid out in my report, Jack.’
‘Who needs a match,’ Mason shrugged. ‘It was me who arrested the bastard.’
The doctor looked at him with suspicion. ‘That may be the case, but he’s not your man. I can assure you of that.’
Mason backed away, as if a million volts had suddenly passed through his body. His suspect behind bars, it meant he could only detain him for twenty-four hours. After that, he would need to request an extension through the magistrate’s courts – a prospect that didn’t bear thinking about. What’s more, if he didn’t lay charges soon, the press would be all over him like a rash. Too many imponderables, he thought. The pressure was mounting, and people were demanding answers. He needed to find a way out of this, and quickly, before it all got out of hand.
‘According to David Carlisle,’ said Mason, ‘most serial killers operate within a five-mile radius of where they live. It’s called their hunting ground. So tell me, why don’t we DNA every male between the ages of twenty and thirty who live within a five-mile radius of Gateshead?’
‘It sounds a good idea, Jack, but how do you propose we get over ten-thousand volunteers to come forward and eliminate themselves from your enquiry? And, another thing,’ said Dr Brown. ‘How do we know he lives in Gateshead? Derek Riley’s murder was carried out over forty-miles away from here, as I recall.’
Mason’s body language had turned decidedly aggressive. ‘I’m still not convinced. There must be something we can pin on this bastard?’
‘Sorry, Jack. I would like to think it was him, but it isn’t, and the results are conclusive. What’s more, your suspect’s blood group is ‘B’ negative and blood traces found on Annie Jenkins’ body were ‘A’ positive.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means your killer is an entirely different blood group, Jack.’
‘So who the hell do I have locked up in Gateshead police station?’
The doctor shrugged, as though not knowing. He was standing now, as if trying to evade further questioning. ‘I’ve talked this over with Tom Hedley in some detail, and we’re both agreed. Footprint casts taken from your suspect’s footwear certainly don’t match with those taken from the Wharf Butcher’s crime scenes. The evidence is convincing, Jack.’
Mason nearly choked on the doctor’s words. This was the last thing he wanted to hear. He was furious. ‘If it’s not him, then why did he run away from the police?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
In all his years on the force, Mason had never come across anything like this before. He was fuming. ‘I’ve got an ex-wife who gives me grief, a daughter who’s never out of my bloody wallet, and now you’re telling me this lanky piece of shit isn’t the Wharf Butcher. Give me a break, Chris. Where’s the justice in this world?’
Now sat astride a small stool, the doctor placed a fresh glass slide beneath the microscope lens. Closing one eye, he made some pretence adjustment to the viewfinder.
‘There are some positives, of course.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well . . . we’ve managed to recover a few of Annie’s personal belongings from your suspect’s property. I know it’s not a lot, but I’m certain you’ll find it of some interest. If nothing else, it may warrant his current arrest.’
Still trying to come to terms with his disappointment, there wasn’t a lot Mason could do right now. He thought about it – but not for long. Then he began to wonder. What if the doctor had overlooked some vital piece of evidence, a minute piece of fibre from the suspect’s clothing? It was a longshot, but right now anything was better than nothing.
‘So what are we looking at, Doc?’
There followed an infuriating wait, and Mason was almost beyond himself.
‘If you must know, we found a black cardigan, an empty lipstick holder and a couple of shopping receipts in your suspect’s rented property. None of them had traces of the killer’s DNA on them.’
‘Is that it?’ Mason said, pacing the floor. ‘Not a fat lot to get my teeth into . . . eh.’
The doctor flinched from the cutting edge of Mason’s ranting. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it of some interest, Jack,’ the doctor said, pointing down at the sealed plastic evidence bag.
Mason glanced at the package.
‘Well, well, we finally get to the bottom of it. It seems there were some promiscuous activities taking place after all. What do we know, Doc?’’
The doctor gave Mason a curious look. ‘Stop trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, Jack. It won’t get you anywhere. The evidence is conclusive, and that’s the end of the matter.’
‘Was this asshole shagging her, Chris?’
‘I doubt it. Besides, presumptions and factual forensic evidence don’t always go together. Even you know that.’
Mason blew out a long sigh. Things were rapidly going from bad to worse, and he could barely contain himself let alone think straight anymore. The palms of his hands felt clammy – a sure sign of frustration.
He managed a rare smile. It wasn’t all bad he reassured himself, surely not.
‘There’s not a fat lot going for me, is there, Chris?’
The doctor’s brow furrowed. ‘If it’s of any consolation, Annie Jenkins’ bodily presence was spread over a very small area of your suspect’s property. She certainly wasn’t sleeping there, if that’s what you’re trying to get at. Let’s face it, he was obviously running away from something or he wouldn’t have barricaded himself inside his property in the first place.’
‘Right, well, like I say, it’s not looking good, is it.’
‘Perhaps something might come out of the interview, Jack.’
Mason’s face contorted. ‘I very much doubt it. If you ask me, he’s beginning to sound like a frustrated parrot. The only answer he gives me is . . .no comment.’
‘This one obviously knows the system by the sound of things,’ the doctor said, shaking his head.
Mason mumbled a few utterances under his breath, knowing full well he was getting nowhere fast. It was a well-known fact that a suspect is under no obligation to answer any police questions. Besides, police interviews were usually a no-win situation at the best of times. And another thing, he wasn’t feeling particularly proud of his own performance either. Just because the evidence was heavily stacked against him, he’d flown off the handle again. It was moments like this, and Mason had experience far too many lately, that he wished he could control his temper.
Even so, he would need to re-visit the video footage of Annie’s funeral, find out what had spooked their suspect in the first place. Then there was the question of the stolen Lotus Élan – it wasn’t the Wharf Butcher’s style. He should have known that the moment he first clapped eyes on the vehicle. God, what a mess!
‘Just when I thought I had the killer in the palm of my hand, he slips through my fingers again.’
‘You can only work with the facts, no matter how much pressure other people are putting on you, Jack.’
‘Try telling that to those upstairs,’ Mason said. ‘It’s like standing in the middle of a graveyard . . . nobody in there listens to you anymore.’
The doctor lowered his head. ‘If your suspect was acquainted with Annie Jenkins, then he’s bound to know which pubs she hung around in.’
‘We’ve already checked that one out, Chris. Needless to say, there’s not a bar in Gateshead that Annie Jenkins didn’t frequent.’
‘So why is your suspect still refusing to talk?’
‘God knows!’
‘He’s obviously hiding something.’
‘I know, but what do I charge him with?’ Mason shrugged. ‘Apart from stealing a Lotus Élan, there’s very little else we can pin on him.’
‘For God’s sake, Jack, I’m only trying to be helpful here.’
Mason slumped back against the lab wall, and finally came to his senses. ‘Sorry, Chris,’ he said, holding his arms up. ‘This Wharf Butcher is doing my fucking head in.’
‘And he’s still out there,’ said Dr Brown as Mason walked towards the door.
Mason paused and turned. ‘I know, but where do you start looking for him?’
‘Rather you than me.’
‘Thanks a lot, mate.’
Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, they had. Taking the lift, Mason was more confused than ever.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles was in no mood for questioning. Still seething over Jack Mason’s recent investigation into Gilesgate’s business affairs, the chairman’s look was grim. As the last of Gilesgate’s board members took up their positions around the large oak conference table, they appeared ill at ease. He’d chosen this venue carefully, with purpose: it was the perfect setting. Deep inside the bowels of Lakeside House and divorced from the rest of the building, Sir Jeremy felt in control. If nothing else, it signalled his intentions. News of the suspect’s arrest had travelled fast: the media were hot on the trail of yet another headline story. It was a time for engagement, a time for ratification.
