The Wharf Butcher, page 19
‘I’d admit he’s no artist.’
Mason’s eyes burned like embers. ‘Spare me a thought––’
‘And yet they reveal so much about his personality.’
‘To you maybe, but they do bugger all for me. As far as I’m concerned, the Wharf Butcher has the intellect of a five year old child.’ Mason raised an eyebrow looking far from convinced. ‘He was in such a bloody hurry; he forgot to turn off the sink tap.’
Only too pleased that Mason still had some appetite for conversation, Carlisle drew breath. Usually by now, the DCI was ranting and raving at everyone. He lifted his spectacles onto his forehead, and cast a critical eye over a small section of wall.
‘He lives in a world of fantasy, which certainly fits the component makeup of a serial killer. Forget revenge or any other theories, this one’s serious about his work. In fact I’ll stand by my first impression of him, he’s a sensationalist.’
Mason barely glanced at him. ‘He might well be, but he’s spreading a lot more than the gospel about the place.’
The adrenaline racing, Carlisle delicately ran an index finger back over a series of sketches, only this time tracing their contours. There was a definite childish mentality about his style, but the subject matter was distinctly that of an adult nature. He’d witnessed its evil before – the characteristics were predictably repetitious. Deep down he found the killer’s state of mind to be insidiously different from those he’d ever come across before. There was a definite arrogance in his style, decidedly unsettling.
‘These sketches are sending out all the wrong vibes, Jack.’
‘How do you come to that conclusion?’
‘The person behind them has more than a few emotional issues.’
Mason glowered at him. ‘Don’t tell me you can read into this sort of crap?’
‘Isn’t that what you pay me to do?’
‘OK. So what is he telling you?’
‘He’s re-enacting his childhood, but he’s fighting it. It shows in his mental state, hence the childlike way in which he presents his images. Even kids would find difficulty in drawing this kind of stuff.’
‘I would bloody well hope so, goddammit,’ Mason asserted.
For a brief moment the room fell silent again, broken only by the wind, playing against the window latch. Dropping to his haunches, Carlisle studied the sketches from a different angle. In places the hand had been steady, in others erratic. He sensed mixed emotions. Standing now, he took another look at the subject matter. Only this time, his nose was almost touching the wall. ‘He’s dominant . . . and likes to express his powers of achievement.’ Carlisle paused in reflection. ‘And that would account for his exhibitionism.’
Mason stuck his hands deep into his trouser pockets, and looked on in bewilderment. It was as though the mental cogs were working at full stretch, but his brain still wasn’t functioning.
‘Don’t tell me these sketches represent his victims?’
‘I’d say so,’ Carlisle nodded.
‘Tell me you’re joking––’
‘Here we see Riley . . . the blow to the head. Over there . . . crucifixion, which bears all the hallmarks of Anderson’s horrific ending.’ Carlisle drew breath. ‘Notice how the killer sees himself; he always draws himself twice the size of his victims. He’s the dominant figure, commanding power over everyone else.’
‘Unbelievable!’ Mason said, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘You see. Even you can reach into his world.’
They spent the next fifteen minutes going over the possibilities, Mason hanging on his every word. As the dangerous psychological cat and mouse game began to unfold, the innermost workings of a serial killer’s mind slowly became more apparent. Then, Mason pointed down towards a small strip frame of sketches in the corner of the room. The victim’s throat had been torn open, the head falling back, and blood spurting out of it. Carlisle caught a hint of excitement in Mason’s voice, as a child discovering his first magic trick.
‘What sort of person are we up against here?’
‘He’s mentally unstable, that’s for sure.’
‘Hell man, even I know that,’ said Mason. ‘How many of these people are dead?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
With the eye of a hawk, Carlisle began to take in the detail again. Every now and then he would home in on one of the sketches, but he still found the images distracting. Then it struck him. What if these sketches were unfinished thoughts?
‘What the hell is going on?’ Mason said, sounding even more nervous.
‘Look carefully, Jack. What do you see?’
Mason took a step back in search of an answer.
‘A crane mechanism, the kind found in a boat yard. Why?’
‘These are more than just mere thoughts, I’m convinced of that. These are a pictorial record of his past achievements, and his future aims.’
‘It will take more than a few sketches to convince me,’ Mason insisted.
Mason had a point, but only a trained eye could see through the fog. Suddenly it felt as if the rug had been pulled from under him. ‘Our suspect is proud of his work, and dedicated to the point of showing off. If all these murders had already been committed, then I’d suspect we’d have found a lot more bodies by now. No, the person we’re looking for is a pure exhibitionist who likes to display his work as if the world was his public art gallery.’
‘What worries me,’ Mason sighed, ‘is that he’s improving with practice.’
Carlisle shuddered inwardly, sensing its vulgarity. Inside the tiny room he felt a new affiliation with his subject, as if he was closer to him than ever before. Not with-standing his motives, their suspect’s style of killing were consistent. ‘He’s methodical, Jack, systematic to a point of being organised. His victims, all members of a specific group, Gilesgate, are the perfect fit of the missionary killer. The question is – could he be one of them?’
‘God knows.’
‘These black and white photographs you mentioned, they could be of major significance,’ Carlisle confirmed. ‘They’re part of his modus operandi. Pictures are memorabilia, events of the past. I need to take a look at them.’
His request was greeted with another shake of the head. Even with the windows fully open the room still stank of urine. It played on their nostrils, a foul bitter odour.
‘I’ve already made a note of it. I’ll arrange to have copies sent over.’
‘Did Hedley give any indications as to when he might have something ready?’
‘Tonight with any luck––’
‘Our suspect’s had a very troubled past, and may well have been abused as a child.’ Carlisle was thinking aloud now, as he often did. ‘Whatever happened to him in the past, it’s left a deep-rooted impression on his mind.’
Mason shot him a sideways glance. ‘Could that have triggered him into killing?’
‘It’s possible, but it’s hard to say at this stage as his mind is fuelled by fantasy. In our discovering his hideout, it may have sparked off all kinds of mental warfare inside his head.’
Mason paced the floor.
‘I’m considering stepping up my 24-7 covert operations on Gilesgate, but I don’t have the available resources.’
‘Why not run it past the Assistant Chief Constable? After all, he’s the one who insists you to protect, rather investigate Gilesgate’s board of directors.’
‘To hell with the ACC,’ Mason said.
Carlisle’s mind was racing now. Gripped by the suspect’s movement patterns, sadly an empty room offered him few clues. Stripped of personal belongings and sparse of comforts, the flat felt cold, detached, without any personal feeling. Stepping from the room, he drew in the fresh clean air. Nineteen storeys below, he watched as the media circus surged forward – cameras at the ready, sound recorders held high above strained heads. There was no mistaking the glaze in Mason’s eyes, firmly fixed ahead and staring into empty space. The veins on the backs of the detective’s hands stood out, the knuckles predominantly white. He appeared troubled, and whatever it was, it was deep-rooted.
They moved towards the stairwell, and Carlisle felt the cold stiff breeze sweeping in off the river. ‘The Wharf Butcher is stretching us, Jack. It’s his way of dealing with it.’
‘He’s got us exactly where he wants us, if you ask me,’ Mason sighed. ‘But you were right about one thing: he’s definitely using the metro rail system as part of his murder plans.’
They exchanged glances, and under the cover of a tight security ring Carlisle slipped unnoticed from the building. The rain was drumming down when he eventually drove south along the Western By-pass. Late afternoon and the rush hour traffic was nose to tail. Then, close to the Gateshead Metro Centre, it finally ground to a halt. Minutes later, the radio presenter announced that a major police incident had closed many of the approach roads in and out of Gateshead’s town centre.
‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘I wonder what that’s all about.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Earlier that morning
Even a genius feels pain.
Those words had hung around inside Lexus’s head for days now. His mind was in turmoil, and it annoyed him intensely. It would be good to be rid of the voices, just for once. He could barely think straight, let alone plan anything anymore. But there lay a problem. Not more than a stone’s throw away, close to the edge of reality, his tiny flat was meticulously being torn apart. It was a weird sight, but he bears no grudges, not today at least. Lexus has more important things on his mind, and more interesting!
Then the voices . . .
What do you see?
‘Only the darkness,’ he replied.
Can you reach out and touch it?
‘No. Not today.’
Beyond the edge of the world lies a space, where emptiness and darkness collide. If you reach out and touch it, you will surely witness the light.
‘Is it real?’
Of course, the voice in his head replied.
Lexus was not deterred, why should he be? The street lighting was on, and the tiny memory stick – the one he’d placed in his pocket earlier – it was still there. It was a lifetime’s work, a masterpiece creation, and everything he had strived for . . . and more, of course.
Taken your medicine today?
‘Do I need to?’ he shrugged.
Maybe not, but do you have a plan?
‘Only a genius would know that.’
Without a doubt,the voice replied.And I bet it’s a good one?
All these questions annoyed him, intensely. Besides, he had other things on his mind – more important things. Set back in the shadows, he watched as another plainclothes detective ducked beneath the police cordon tape. There was despair on the officer’s face; it reminded him of a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Wait a minute, wasn’t that the Profiler, the very man brought in to hunt him down? Surely not! Yes it was, and wasn’t he much shorter than he had imagined him to be?
How exciting is that?
These people are so disappointing.
‘I know,’ Lexus sneered. ‘I’m such a genius.’
Well then, shall we get on with it?
Moments later, he watched as David Carlisle climbed into a battered old car and sped from the crowded courtyard. He wasn’t happy anymore. Not today he wasn’t. He’d always imaged the profiler to be an intelligent man – calculating just like him. Then, quite by chance, people pushed past him. Everywhere pandemonium – even the television crews had difficulty in jostling for a position. Still smarting from the loss of his beloved flat, he hid in a doorway and waited.
What to do next?
He had absolutely no idea of time; time meant nothing to Lexus. It was an unnecessary nuisance. Then, at the bottom of the stairwell, Jack Mason appeared. Panic gripped him, and his pulse quickened until he could barely breathe anymore. Jack was an astute cookie, unlike the rest. Only Mason could slip in and out of delicate situations at will. And yes, it was a frightening thing being invisible. He knew that, but it still drove him mad all the same.
Then the voices again . . .
What a cunning move. How did you spot that?
‘Yeah, but what to do next?’ he asked.
You will think of something, you always do.
‘I know, so why must you keep reminding me?’
The chaos inside his head was building now, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Lexus could never understand the complexities of uncertainly, it meant absolutely nothing to him. At least today it didn’t. As the light began to fade, he slipped unnoticed into the bowels of Gateshead Metro station. Calm overcame him. The dark was awesome. He loved it down there; the rush of hot air on his face, the hiss of the train doors, and the maze of dark tunnels, gloomy passageways and flashing coloured lights. This was his Shangri-La, a mystical paradise, set in such beautiful surroundings. Lulled into false security, he fell into another light sleep. He barely had time to relax nowadays. How crazy was that?
Then, as the train pulled out and onto the Queen Elizabeth II Metro Bridge, his eyes shot open again. He loved up here, high up above the water’s edge where everything was unflustered and so peaceful. Didn’t he know every twist and turn in that river? Of course he did; that was his hunting ground, his peace of mind. He once dreamt he could fly.
‘Is that possible?’
Every genius can fly, Lexus.
‘Including me?’
Indeed . . .
Lexus breathed in heavily. ‘I always thought I could fly,’ he replied.
You’re such a genius.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The drive to Corbridge took them a little over forty minutes. Detective Carrington took the wheel; Carlisle was too busy catching up on the latest Coroner’s report. On nearing the village of Dilston, Carrington turned right at the T junction and dropped down into Linnets Bank. Through a gap in the hedgerow, Carlisle caught his first glimpse of the beautiful rolling landscape. Winter here was a challenge: bleak isolation, with heavy snowfalls and bitter cold winds that cut through you as if you were naked. As the young detective pulled up in front of a small coppice, she switched off the engine and ambled round the front of the vehicle. It was late morning, yesterday’s rain had gone and it was a beautiful summer’s day.
Together, they made their way down a long winding footpath, until reaching a short bend in the river. Opposite stood a white stone cottage. Guarded at the rear by dense woodlands, its front was protected by cultivated blackthorn. From the outside, the place looked deserted. If they were being watched, it was from a distance. On crossing a small footbridge, Carrington pointed towards a thin plume of white smoke drifting out from one of the chimney stacks.
‘Try peeping in through a window,’ Carrington said.
This had to be Bradley Jenkins’ place, thought Carlisle. There were no other buildings for miles. Taking the easy option, he stepped up to the door and rapped the iron knocker. It seemed to go on forever, but when the door finally opened they were met by a slender man with wispy ginger hair and mouse like eyes. Bradley Jenkins looked much older than Carlisle had imagined. He was lean, with barely an ounce of spare fat on his body.
Carrington introduced herself.
‘Police,’ she said, thrusting her warrant card under Bradley Jenkins’ nose.
‘Yeah, what do you people want now?’
They stared at one another for a few seconds, before Carrington explained the purpose of their visit. Jenkins glowered at them through the open doorway, before finally allowing them inside. The modern furnishings seemed at odds with the rest of the building. The sitting room was tiny; low wood beamed ceilings and whitewashed walls gave it a claustrophobic feel. Neatly laid out in one corner stood a large plasma television screen, next to a tall bookcase crammed full of DVDs. An anorak lay over the back of chair, left there in a moment of haste. What’s more, there was rustling coming from the rear of the cottage – Jenkins wasn’t alone.
Focusing on the suspect’s eyes, Carlisle tried to read into Jenkins’ mind. Not the best of circumstances to conduct an interview, he thought, especially when close family and friends were now locked in a bitter dispute over the rightful ownership of the cottage. If nothing else, Annie Jenkins’ untimely demise had certainly sparked off more than its fair share of family trouble.
‘We are here to ask a few questions,’ Carrington explained.
‘What is it this time?’ said Jenkins. ‘I’ve already told you all I know.’
‘It’s about Annie,’ the young detective replied. ‘It will only take a few minutes.’
Jenkins finished off the last of his drink. ‘That’s what you sods said the last time.’
‘In that case we’ll be brief.’
Jenkins scowled at her. ‘So what do you want?’
‘We’re keen to establish Annie’s last known movements,’ Carlisle said, trying his utmost not to sound too overbearing. ‘Tell me, does the name Lewis Paul sound familiar to you at all?’
There was another long pause before Jenkins unfolded his arms and relaxed his pose.
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that name mentioned before. Why?’
‘Two days ago,’ said Carlisle. ‘I put it to Lewis Paul, that Annie may have been threatened after she left her position at Gilesgate.’
‘And what was Paul’s reply?’ Jenkins asked.
It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome that Carlisle had hoped for. He watched as the sunlight played through the small bay windows, making Jenkins squint. All the while rustling continued to come from another part of the building.
‘Well,’ said Carlisle calmly. ‘Paul gave me the distinct impression that Annie was a very amicable person to work with. But in fairness to him, he did advise we speak with you first.’
Jenkins hesitated. ‘Did he?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Carlisle nodded. ‘Did Annie ever mention anything to you about feeling threatened in any way?’
‘I can’t say as she did. Why?’
