The Wharf Butcher, page 18
‘Bugger me, I––’
‘Close to the river, all within easy reach of a Metro station.’ Carlisle paused for effect. ‘And another thing, I’m convinced he’s holed up here somewhere, between Manors and Tynemouth Metro stations.’
‘So why Mk3 Mondeo’s, what the hell is that all about?’
Carlisle sighed. ‘It’s all part of his comfort thing, and he probably feels at ease with it. There’s nothing wrong with that, unless of course, you happen to own one.’
Mason winced as the barman turned the TV volume up to watch the horse racing channel. ‘If you turn that thing up any fucking louder, I’ll shove that remote control up your arse.’ The barman stared at him, and quickly thought the better of it. Seconds later, the volume was turned back down again.
‘How would you describe him?’ Mason asked bluntly.
‘Retaliatory is the simple answer.’
Mason took a huge gulp of his beer, and wiped the froth from his lips. He ordered a fresh pint, as though to state his intention. ‘We need to get our hands on a list of Gilesgate’s employees. Run a cursory check on anyone who lives within easy walking distance of Manors and Tynemouth Metro stations.’
Carlisle drew back. ‘It’s only a theory at this stage, Jack.’
‘Nevertheless, a damn good one,’ Mason said, thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, what’s Wallace up to nowadays?’
‘He’s checking out CCTV coverage.’
‘What the hell for?’ said Mason, bluntly.
He pointed to the map. ‘I’m convinced the killer is using the Metro system to stalk his victims, and it’s fast becoming his signature.’
‘Don’t hang your hat on CCTV coverage,’ said Mason, leaning heavily back in his seat. ‘Most of the footage I’ve ever come across is crap.’
‘George is a good operator. He’s thorough with it. Let’s see what his investigations throw up before we go making rash judgements about him.’
They left the Dolly Peel into bright sunshine. Apart from a few minor distractions, Mason was in an incredibly agreeable mood. There again, the DCI wasn’t the only one who wanted results. Right now Carlisle would have given anything to see their killer behind bars.
‘Who the hell is Dolly Peel?’ Mason asked, pointing to the pub sign.
Carlisle wracked his brains. Then he remembered. ‘She was an old fishwife back in the eighteenth century. The story goes that her husband and son were both press-ganged to serve in the Royal Navy.’
‘Just curious . . . that’s all.’ Mason shrugged. ‘It’s a queer name to call a pub all the same.’
‘If you’re still interested, Jack, there’s a life-size commemorative statue of her over by River Drive.’
‘Best not go there . . . eh.’
‘Why not––’
‘You’re forgetting,’ Mason said breezily, ‘Isn’t that Wharf Butcher territory?’
Chapter Thirty
It was just another routine call that brought PC Harper back to the high-rise tower block in Gateshead. It was three-fifteen in the afternoon, and he was responding to an urgent call concerning complaints about rowdy adolescents playing pranks on vulnerable old folk in the community. The presence of his blues and twos police car lights must have temporarily frightened them away, but Harper knew otherwise. A notorious melting pot, Bethel Court was riddled with drug dealers, pimps, racketeers, and young adolescent troublemakers who had no ambition to conform to the rest of society. The grownups around here bred like rabbits and fought like rats within the confines of this concrete sarcophagus. Harper was well aware of the dangers that lay within. Two days earlier it had been the turn of the Community Police teams to sort things out; today it was his. It was that kind of community: the adults who lived round here were the product of a forgotten society – no jobs, no money and no future prospects. It was a legacy they passed on to their children.
Stifling a yawn, on reaching the nineteenth floor Harper noticed a steady stream of water escaping through the bottom of one of the flat doors. Some idiot had left a sink tap running, he cursed. Having cut its path along the narrow corridor walkway, a steady trickle of water was now cascading into the bowels of the building below. Reporting his findings to the local authorities, he was soon joined by a distraught caretaker – a cantankerous, lumbering, overweight hippopotamus whose rubbery pug face oozed flab. Not the brightest bulb in the box. There were food slops all down the front of the caretaker’s T-shirt, and his clothes stank of cigarette smoke. Stepping aside, Harper observed the warden’s frustration as he fumbled his way through the huge bunch of keys.
‘Do you not have a master key?’ asked Harper.
‘Nah, they keep changing the locks.’
Rapidly losing patience, Harper brushed him aside and placed the flat of his hand on the central door panel and gave it a gentle push. Taking a pace back, he employed a forceful well placed kick – close to the side of where the lock was mounted. After several attempts at kicking the door open, the lock finally gave way and the door crashed inwards with a loud bang. Stumbling blindly into pitch darkness, the eerie silence that followed caught Harper unawares.
‘Stay exactly where I can see you,’ said Harper.
‘I’m right behind you, Constable.’
‘OK. I want you to move back to the walkway.’
Adjusting to the dark, Harper caught sight of a small shaft of light penetrating through a chink in the window blinds. The air inside was hot, repressively hot, tinged with an overwhelming stench of urine. It hung in the back of his throat reminding him of a CS gas training session. It had a distinctive odour of ketones, overpowering and incredibly strong. Whoever lived here sure had a poor sense of smell. If not, they had massive health issues.
Extending one foot in front of him, Harper shuffled towards the light source. On nearing his goal, he fumbled in the dark and tugged what he thought was the window blind cord. There followed an almighty crack. Seconds later, the blinds fell down on top of him.
‘Are you all right in there?’
‘Yeah, stay back.’
Adjusting to the light, Harper shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight that now poured into the room.
‘Holy shit!’ the caretaker shrieked. ‘What the hell is all this about?’
‘Stay where you are,’ Harper insisted.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, the Constable replaced his police cap and gave his uniform a quick dust down. Nothing had prepared him for this; it had all happened so quickly. Reaching towards his waist-belt he unclipped the radio handset, pursed his lips, and gently blew into the speaker.
Dust flew everywhere.
‘PC Harper, Sarge. I’m responding to a call to Bethel Court. I need backup.’
Swearing quietly, Harper took a step back and began to take stock of the situation. Inexplicably drawn towards the strange matchstick figures and macabre illustrations of death that covered every wall, he tried to focus his mind. Confused, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone and began taking pictures. Whatever these images represented, they certainly had a sinister feel. He stood for a brief moment, unclipped his radio handset, and spoke directly with the sergeant again.
‘We need forensics down here, Sarge. I’m sure they’d want to see this,’ he whispered.
‘I’m dealing with it!’ the voice on the other end of the handset boomed out.
All in all, PC Harper was having a good day. Whatever it was he’d stumbled across, he was certain it would appeal to the experts. His thoughts now were to secure the building. Touch nothing, seal off the flat and await the arrival of the forensic team.
Without warning his handset suddenly sprang into life again; it was the control desk. Whatever it was Harper had uncovered, the sergeant was certainly excited about it. His voice sounded strained, high pitched and he was talking at ten to the dozen.
‘You’re to touch nothing; DCI Mason is on his way.’
Acknowledging the caller, Harper replaced his handset back into its case and closed down the flap. ‘Nobody is allowed along that corridor,’ said Harper. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Why . . . what’s happening?’
‘Just do as I say.’
The caretaker’s bright red face contorted as though he’d reached condition critical. Turning on his heels, his battered slippers made a squelching noise as he trudged towards the balcony. It was time for action. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Harper placed it over the water mains stopcock and slowly shut off the supply. At least the water had now stopped pouring over the top of the sink. Curious, his eyes returned to the wall sketches. Apart from the bizarre complexity of inhuman suffering, young children could have drawn them. There was, of course, a subtle difference. Only a madman could have drawn them – someone with the warped twisted imagination that only a madman could possess.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Nothing, until I’ve taken down your statement.’
‘Statement!’ the caretaker gasped. ‘What the hell is going on?’
Removing his police notebook, pencil poised at the ready, Harper returned to the balcony. His voice now in official mode, his questions came thick and fast.
‘When was the last time you were up here?’
‘I . . . can’t remember, I––’
‘Was it, days . . . weeks . . . months?’ The puzzled expression on the caretaker’s face told Harper all he wanted know. ‘Well man, what is it to be?’
‘This part of the building hasn’t been occupied in months, Constable. Nobody ever comes up here.’
‘Well, when was the last timeyou last set foot up here?’
‘Maybe three months, I––’
The caretaker started to say something, but Harper raised his hand as if to stop him. Three months seemed an awful long time, and a lot of things could have taken place during that period, thought Harper. He would need to get the bottom of it.
‘So, who lives here?’
‘I don’t know, it was––’
The sound of a police siren wail broke Harper’s concentration. Peering over the balcony, he saw the whole area was now swarming with police. Minutes later he was joined by a half-dozen plainclothes detectives, who moved in haste along the nineteenth floor walkway.
This was no ordinary investigation, Harper told himself.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ the lead figure called out.
The knot in Harper’s throat tightened. Turning, he immediately recognised the stocky figure as he brushed purposefully past him. It was the Bulldog – Jack Mason.
‘That would be me, sir,’ Harper replied nervously.
‘And who might this bag of shit be?’ asked Mason, glowering down at the bedraggled looking caretaker.
‘This is Arnold Tomkinson, sir.’
‘Really,’ said Mason, brushing him aside to poke an inquisitive head in through the open doorway. ‘Tell me, Constable, who occupies this place?’
PC Harper felt his jaw drop. There were times, and there had been many of late, when he wished he’d taken up a desk job – this was one of them.
‘That’s what I’m trying to establish, sir.’
Mason looked up at the broken doorframe and tugged at a loose piece of wood splinter. ‘Was this broken before you arrived?’
‘No. It was me who gained a forced entry. As far I’m aware, I’m the only person to have entered the building since.’
‘And no one else has set foot inside these premises?’
Harper shook his head. ‘No––’
‘What about this bag of ––’ Mason checked himself.
There followed a tense few moments, a gathering of thoughts.
‘You did a good job, Constable, but don’t let it go to your head. If it is the person we’re looking for, he’s probably miles away by now.’
Harper was feeling the pressure. What had started as a routine enquiry had now turned into a major crime investigation. Surely this couldn’t be the Wharf Butcher’s hideaway, surely not, thought Harper.
Chapter Thirty-One
David Carlisle stood in numb disbelief. Sixty years had passed since this concrete jungle had forged itself onto Gateshead’s skyline. Built to answer a housing crisis in post-war Britain, the ideologically inspired dreams of cheap, quality, high-rise housing was quickly neglected and demonised by the middle classes. Little more than a concrete ghetto, maintenance was abysmal, lifts seldom worked, rubbish chutes were always blocked, and garages regularly burnt down by vandals. These were dispiriting surroundings to live in, and the decent people who lived here hated it with a vengeance.
Ducking beneath the police line tape, Carlisle flashed his ID at an irate police officer and made his way towards Bethel Court high-rise tower block. Around the forecourt, there was plenty of evidence to suggest a major crime investigation was now under way. At the foot of the stairwell, to the left of the building, were two marked police cars, each occupied by uniformed officers from the Tactical Firearms Unit. Further afield, he caught sight of several figures in white coveralls, moving between the floor levels with a purposeful conviction. As ever, a strong contingency of media was busily snapping away at anything that took their fancy. Security was tight, but not tight enough, thought Carlisle. How little these people understood the workings of a serial killer’s mind – the behavioural patterns and different levels of intellect. This was no ordinary individual they were dealing with; did they not realise these people nearly always camouflaged themselves into contemporary anonymity?
Up on the nineteenth floor, he found Jack Mason grilling a blubber faced witness. He barely gave him a second glance. Like most crime scenes he’d ever visited, Carlisle never felt comfortable entering a killer’s lair for the first time. It was the not knowing that he could never quite get his head around, even though he’d done it a thousand times before. In the past he’d learned to live by his first impressions. This time felt different – much more sinister.
Poking his head in through the open doorway, he began to take in his first real images of the Wharf Butcher’s world.
Who are you, and what makes you kill?
The room had a musky smell, and was damp underfoot. Graffiti adorned every wall, macabre child-like sketches of death and horrific torture. It reminded him of something out of the Chamber of Horrors, unnatural, wicked and vile. He closed his eyes and searched for a moment of inspiration that would bring them ever closer. This was the nearest he’d come to actually confronting his killer, and his mind was all over the place.
‘Most of the evidence has been bagged and taken away,’ Mason said. ‘He’s been gone twenty-four hours by the look of things.’
‘How secure is the building?’
‘Water tight, from top to bottom, why do you ask?’
‘It’s the press I’m worried about, Jack. They are everywhere!’
‘Those cockroaches can sniff out a headline a thousand miles away,’ Mason frowned.
Carlisle frowned in a sort of dutiful disapproval. ‘What if he’s posing as one of them?’
‘Rest assured,’ Mason sighed. ‘If the killer is amongst us, we’ll have him on camera. This tower-block has twenty-four seven CCTV monitoring. It’s a notorious drugs neighbourhood, and well known to us.’
Drawing in the air, Carlisle could still smell the suspect’s sweat. Stripped of all physical evidence, the room had a hollow sound and void of any character.
‘What about personal effects?’
‘Everything’s been bagged and taken away for further forensic examination.’ Mason made a little grimace. ‘Before anyone moved in here, I made pretty damn certain a video camera was run over the place. Believe me, this building has been stabilised from top to bottom.’
‘Anything show up?’
‘Not yet, but Hedley’s examination was thorough.’
Mason had a tendency to rush things, thought Carlisle. The man had very little patience. He was impulsive. His eyes toured the room, as he began to take in the detail.
‘Your suspect’s confident; you’ve got to hand him that.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Mason sighed. ‘The Computer Crime Unit has taken away a laptop, so I’m hoping we’ll uncover more about him.’
The CCU’s search will be thorough, Carlisle reasoned. They usually were. If he did have any electronic secrets to hide, these were the people to find it. Was this a big mistake – had he been careless? In the silence that followed, Carlisle began to take in his new surroundings.
‘Do we have a name?’
‘Not yet,’ Mason replied.
‘You mentioned contamination?’
‘Forensics’ had a field day. They have bagged enough trace evidence to fill a bloody transit van. Let’s hope we finally have something on him.’
‘Hedley’s a good man,’ Carlisle acknowledged. ‘He’s thorough with it. Did anything else show up?’
Mason pointed at the walls. ‘Apart from these sketches, a dozen photographs, and several boxes of personal junk, that’s about it I’m afraid.’
Carlisle swung on his heels. ‘What kind of photographs are these?’
‘Group gatherings . . . black and white, professionally taken I’d say. Some loose in boxes, others blue-tacked to the walls.’
‘They could be relevant, Jack. I’d like to see them.’
Mason jotted down his request, as if it were some kind of shopping reminder. So much was churning through Carlisle’s mind, whilst everything else around him seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. Turning from the window, he noticed a damp patch in the corner of the room and dabbed his finger in it. It smelt of fish – sardines. Was this the suspect’s last meal? It could well have been.
‘You can almost reach out and touch him,’ said Carlisle, pointing to the sketches.
‘They mean bugger all to me,’ Mason shrugged.
‘Take another look, Jack.’
The DCI stepped back a pace and fixed his gaze on the walls. ‘If you want an honest opinion, they remind me of the drawings my five year old daughter used to bring home from school. It’s kid’s stuff, basic, the kind you’d expect to find pinned to a child’s bedroom wall.
