The Wharf Butcher, page 20
‘What about workmates?’ Detective Carrington cut in.
Jenkins just stared at her looking annoyed. ‘You do realise we were separated, young lady?’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Carrington acknowledged.
Jenkins’ face clouded over. ‘I’ll admit Annie could be a bit Jekyll and Hyde at times. It was always a matter of how much drink she’d had. She wasn’t the easiest of persons to get on with. She was an introvert by nature, but once the drink demons took over she could be a very obnoxious woman.’
‘What about her friends?’
‘Nah, most of them were alcoholics.’
Carlisle was quick to react. ‘Is there anyone else we can talk to?’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea either,’ said Jenkins, scratching the tip of his pointed chin, as though it were an unusual question. ‘As you know, Annie and I were never on good speaking terms at the best of times.’
‘What about close family?’ Carrington asked.
‘What family! She had no family, they all buggered off the moment she hit the bottle.’ Jenkins looked Carrington in the eye, and swore quietly. ‘Annie drank herself into some sorry states at times. I’d even go as far as to say she drank––’ Jenkins checked himself.
The young detective nodded, but did not press the matter further.
They talked openly for a while, but he told them nothing they didn’t already know. However, the minute Carlisle mentioned Sir Jeremy’s name, Jenkins’ body language turned aggressive. ‘Don’t mention that little weasel’s name in my house,’ Jenkins retorted.
Carlisle just stared at him, not expressing any interest in the details.
‘Those are strong words, Bradley,’ answered Carrington.
‘Look,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s not just me; nobody I know likes the little bastard.’
Carlisle let him rant on a bit, before cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘It’s obvious you don’t see eye to eye with Sir Jeremy, and I can’t say as I blame you,’ Carlisle shrugged. ‘But how did Annie get on with him?’
Jenkins took a few seconds to compose himself. ‘She didn’t,’ he replied bluntly. ‘She never liked him. How he gets away with running Gilesgate’s operations beggars belief. But he does, and that’s the problem.’
Carlisle raised an eyebrow. ‘Gets away with what?’
‘Now hold on a minute––’
‘I’m confused, Bradley.’ Carlisle confessed. ‘I was under impression that Lewis Paul was in charge of Gilesgate’s operational sites, but your reaction tells me otherwise.’
‘You’re mistaken, Carlisle,’ said Jenkins, shaking his head. ‘Paul’s just a front man. It’s Sir Jeremey and his cronies who run Gilesgate, not Paul. He’s a mere puppet.’
Carlisle probed deeper. ‘What do mean by that?’
‘For God’s sake . . . Annie was Sir Jeremy’s PA; she had access to some highly confidential documents. Think about it, she handled all of Gilesgate’s contracts.’
The room fell silent for a few seconds, a gathering of thoughts. Had Annie stumbled across something she shouldn’t have, he wondered. Was she murdered because of it? There again, they were dealing with a serial killer and that theory didn’t hold a lot of water either. Carlisle felt as though he was onto something, but what, he had no idea. Somehow or other, he would need to get to the bottom of it.
‘These so called cronies, what can you tell me about them?’ Carlisle asked.
Jenkins looked down, examining his watch strap. There was scorn in his voice. ‘It’s just what I picked up from Annie, you know how it is. She always liked to talk these things over when she’d had a few drinks. From what I could gather, these people were not only guarded about their activities and their identities, they were shrewd businessmen by all accounts. And another thing . . . why would you want to hold your meetings in the dead of the night, and behind closed doors?’ Jenkins puffed out his cheeks and expelled out a long drawn out gasp. ‘Annie may have been a lot of things, Mr Carlisle, but she certainly wasn’t daft. If she knew something wasn’t right, she would stop at nothing until she got to the bottom of it.’
‘And did she?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
Detective Carrington flashed him a quizzical glance.
Carlisle thought a moment. Jenkins was scathing, but that was understandable. A confirmed alcoholic, his ex-wife had not only lost her dignity and her position at Gilesgate – what followed was a bitter marriage breakup, a major family rift, and finally murder. Maybe Jenkins felt the need to blame someone else for his wife’s tragic downfall, and Sir Jeremy seemed the perfect person. No, there was something else, something more sinister that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘Did Annie ever say who these people were?’ he asked.
‘Nah, as far I’m aware they were professional people, financial brokers, police officers, bankers; people with influence.’
Carlisle studied Jenkins body language. ‘People with money perhaps – financial investors?’
‘People with power more like.’
‘Did she mention any names?’
‘No. Not to me she didn’t.’
‘You mentioned police officers were in attendance at these meetings.’ Carlisle stared back at him, looking for signs of hesitation. ‘Did Annie say who these people were?’
‘She did mention the Assistant Chief Constable’s name, but that’s as much as I know.’ Jenkins screwed his face up and swore. ‘I could never understand what a copper was doing getting involved with those arseholes . . . unless?’
Carlisle caught Detective Carrington’s glances.
‘Is that why Annie became suspicious do you think, because police officers were involved?’ said Carrington.
‘How would I know? Annie was many things to many people, but she was never one to take it lying down.’
Detective Carrington wrinkled her nose. ‘Including, Sir Jeremy?’
‘Oh yes, including Sir Jeremy,’ Jenkins said, spitting his words out.
They chatted a while.
‘Listen!’ said Jenkins. ‘What are the police doing about finding Annie’s killer?’
‘That’s why we’re trying to establish her last known movements,’ Carrington replied. ‘The people Annie mixed with, family, friends, that kind of thing.’
‘It’s Gilesgate you people should be talking to. Not me.’
Carlisle thought about this, but refused to be drawn in by Jenkins’ utter resentment towards Sir Jeremy. He stood to leave. ‘We’re grateful for your time, Mr Jenkins,’ he said handing Jenkin’s one of his business cards. ‘If you can think of anything that may have a bearing on our enquiries, please don’t hesitate to contact me.’
‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Jenkins shrugged. ‘It’s Gilesgate you people should be investigating. Not me.’
Carlisle whistled through clenched teeth. Bradley Jenkins had a point. Had his ex-wife uncovered a darker side to Gilesgate’s operations, and if so, had she placed herself in a vulnerable position? Then, more importantly, there was the question surrounding the Acting Chief Constable’s involvement in Gilesgate. Was Jenkins overreacting, venting his frustrations out on Sir Jeremy – laying the blame for his wife’s sad decline firmly at the Chairman’s door? He had his suspicions, of course, but refused to be drawn in by them. Besides, he would need to talk it over with Jack Mason first.
Carlisle felt a headache coming on. It had been one of those meetings, and they were leaving with more questions than answers. On reaching the coppice, Detective Carrington fished in her handbag and took out a pair of sunglasses. Leaning back against the undercover pool car, she began taking in the sun’s warm rays. They’d made some progress, not a lot to report, but at least it was something.
Carrington turned to face him. ‘What did you make of Bradley Jenkins?’
‘He certainly has no time for Sir Jeremy.’
‘No prizes there then,’ Carrington smiled.
‘I suspect Bradley Jenkins has told us everything he knows. Unfortunately, most of the hidden detail lies buried with his ex-wife.’
‘Those were my thoughts,’ Carrington said, peering over the top of her designer sunglasses. ‘At least we can eliminate him from our enquiries.’
He watched as the young detective brushed an annoying strand of hair from her face.
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Carrington said coyly.
‘What’s that?’
‘Are you still single by any chance?’
Caught unawares, Carlisle felt his jaw drop. ‘Why?’
‘Just curious, that’s all,’ she shrugged.
Her voice had a mischievous tone. Sure he fancied her. Who wouldn’t, he thought. He quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, knowing full well he could never get involved with another woman. Jackie had been his life, his only love. He could never dishonour her memory.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
The ten-thirty briefing trumped up all the usual faces, thought Carlisle, and the operations room smelt of fear and sweat. Owing to the vast amount of physical material recovered from the Wharf Butcher’s flat, Forensics was struggling. Whilst most of the evidence had been meticulously logged, packaged and labelled, it still required considerable laboratory effort to sift through the mountains of detail. It was painstaking work, but one that could not be rushed.
Jack Mason had kept his media statement brief that morning. The national television networks were out in force, most of them running live news bulletins. The public’s insatiable demand for answers had ensured the Northumbria police were kept constantly on their toes. As usual, Mason gave very little away. Dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, white buttoned down shirt and blue polka dot tie, the moment he entered the operations room, he looked more like a television presenter than a senior police officer heading up a major murder investigation.
Taking centre stage, the DCI removed his jacket, and stood to face the team. In what was promising to be a long drawn out meeting, the next fifteen minutes were spent running back over the last twenty-four hours’ events. When they came to the discovery of the suspect’s computer, true to form, Mason dug his heels in.
‘John,’ said Mason, pointing to a dour-faced member of the police Computer Crime Unit. ‘What information have you managed to recover?’
From what Carlisle could make out, John Cutmore was a thirty-something year old computer geek who carried a huge chip on his shoulder. Unquestionably an oddball, what Cutmore lacked in dress sense he certainly made up for in intellect. He had one of those annoying, high pitched squeaky voices, and spoke in snatches as if his words wouldn’t come out fast enough.
‘Your suspect was operating a high-end Lenovo’s fourteen-inch ThinkPad X1Carbon Touch computer,’ Cutmore said, oozing computer jargon. ‘It was part of a large consignment, stolen from a lorry park in Leeds. None of it was ever recovered, until this one turned up.’
The noise levels heightened.
‘When was this?’
‘Last August,’ Cutmore replied.
‘Where from exactly?’ Mason asked
‘The Tingley Lorry Park, it’s near junction twenty-eight as you head west along the M62 towards Lancashire.’
Mason jotted down some notes. ‘What else can you tell us?’
‘Not a lot. He’s not registered with any of the usual social networking sites. If you ask me, he seems a bit of lone wolf in my opinion.’
‘What about chat rooms?’
‘No, nothing,’ shrugged Cutmore, as if it was another stupid question.
‘Did he ever use Skype?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
Mason checked with his notes. ‘Does he search any particular websites?’
‘He’s addicted to American crime reporting, if that’s what you mean.’
He watched as Cutmore leaned back heavily in his seat and yawned, as if bored by it all. Not the best of moves, Carlisle inwardly groaned.
‘And that’s it?’ Mason said, staring at him, eyes like daggers.
Cutmore sat bolt upright as though a thousand volts had suddenly passed through his chair. His face now bright red, he put his mug down and tried to gather his composure. ‘I . . . err . . . no, I’m not sure.’ Cutmore was silent for a few moments, looking around, and eyes like a frightened rabbit. ‘He seems to have downloaded an awful lot of material involving notorious serial killers. His computer was crammed full of the stuff.’
‘Anyone in particular spring to mind?’
‘Not really, but he does seem to have a morbid fascination with Ted Bundy’s trial.’
‘I see. What other things has he stored?’
‘He shows a lot of personal interest in his own murder crimes.’
Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘Such as––’
‘Newspaper reports, YouTube clips, that kind of stuff. It starts with the Ernest Stanton trial, and progressively carries on from there.’
‘If you ask me, he seems to be interested in what other people are saying about him?’
‘Yeah, I suppose you could say that.’
‘What about login passwords?’ Mason asked.
‘He uses several, boss. But the main one isdevilsmypal.’
Carlisle’s eyes narrowed as Mason moved towards a large whiteboard and tapped it with the back of hand. Now covered in photographic evidence taken from the suspect’s flat, it made chilling viewing. Taking everyone by surprise, the DCI stopped short, changed his mind and smartly turned to face the team again.
‘Vic. What’s the latest on Trevor Radcliffe?’
Caught unawares, a spray of coffee exploded from Vic Miller’s lips. ‘We’re still running with our 24/7 surveillance, Jack,’ Miller said, wiping the dribbles from his chin. ‘Nowadays, Radcliffe spends most of his spare time at the boathouse. That’s the one nearest to the North Shields Fish Quay.’
‘Have there been any more sightings?’
‘Apart from Henry Fraser’s occasional visits, it’s been relatively quiet.’ Miller shuffled awkwardly, as if feeling the pressure. ‘I should also point out that ‘Cleveland’ is due back into the Tyne on Friday.’
‘Just to pick up on that,’ Mason cut in. ‘Cleveland is a one-hundred foot schooner commissioned by Gilesgate to carry out its coastal survey operations. She’s been involved in drugs trafficking in the past, and is known to have slipped under the coastguards’ radar on several occasions. So we need to stay vigilant. When is she due back, Vic?’
‘Early that morning, boss. She’s taking the six-twenty tide,’ said Miller, staring down at his notes.
Harry Manley raised a hand as if to speak. ‘Any chance of getting me fixed up with a cheap happy baccy weekend cruise, Vic?’
The team fell about laughing; even Jack Mason saw the funnier side.
‘OK,’ Mason said eager to press on. ‘Any sign of the suspect showing up at the Bethel Court flat?’
‘It’s all gone quiet, Jack,’ Vic Miller replied.
Mason thanked him, and then turned his attention to other matters. ‘Luke, what’s the latest on Lakeside House?’
Luke James stared into the bottom of his empty plastic coffee cup, before turning to face them. ‘We’ve seen an upsurge of activity, but I’m a bit miffed that Thomas Schlesinger still hasn’t shown up,’ said James. ‘I’m convinced he was involved with John Matthew in the Barrow Burn affair, and––’
‘I take it Fraser is still in regular attendance?’ Mason muttered.
‘Fraser and Sir Jeremy are as thick as thieves, boss.’ James lowered his head. ‘They’re up to no good, I’d wager.’
‘Wait a minute!’ said Mason. ‘What’s happening about Fraser’s car?’
‘We’ve now fitted it with one of our new GPS tracking devices,’ said James, looking smugly upbeat.
‘Nice one!’ Mason acknowledged. ‘That means we can now keep track of his movements.’
For some minutes, they ran back over dozens of Ford Mondeo sightings – ninety-six in total – none of any interest. The killer, it seemed, was refusing to take the bait.
Mason looked at his watch. ‘Sue, how did your interview with Bradley Jenkins go?’
Apart from Mary Holt, a backroom forensics scientist, Detective Sue Carrington was the only other female present that morning. Not surprisingly, thought Carlisle, the young detective gave a very confident account of their findings and seemed determined to pull no punches. The moment she sat down, it took Jack Mason all of three seconds to make the connection.
‘So,’ Mason said, weighing up the facts. ‘We know that Annie Jenkins was Sir Jeremy’s PA, and had access to some highly confidential material.’ Mason paused for effect. ‘Are we now suggesting that Gilesgate are using Lakeside House for some sort of dodgy business activities?’
‘That’s my understanding,’ Carrington nodded.
Mason paced the floor again.
‘OK. Apart from a possible cover up, is there a case to suggest that someone wanted Annie Jenkins silenced?’
‘I wouldn’t discount that theory either,’ Carrington advised.
Mason allowed himself the suggestion of a smile. ‘These late night meetings, did Bradley Jenkins give any indications as to who might have attended them?’
Detective Carrington referred to her notes. ‘He described them as prominent people, stockbrokers, politicians, bankers, police officers . . . people in high office,’ she said, nervously chewing the end of her pen.
‘Do we know who these police officers are?’
The young detective lowered her head. ‘Yes, he did mention the Assistant Chief Constable’s name.’
In all his years on the force, Carlisle had never witnessed an operations room fall so deadly quiet before. At this point, someone would usually make a snide remark. Not today. He could have heard a pin drop. The mere mention of the ACC’s involvement had knocked everyone for six.
All eyes now strained towards Jack Mason.
‘Good work, Sue. Unfortunately the only person who can verify Bradley Jenkins’ statement is now dead.’ Mason seemed rapt in some thought or other. ‘Do you have anything to add, David?’
‘No. Not at this stage,’ Carlisle replied. ‘If nothing else, it confirms our suspicions about Gilesgate and the difficulties we are now faced with.’
